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THE 

HOUSEHOLD LIBRARY 

OF 

IRELAND'S Poets, 

WITH 

FULL AND CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM 

THE 

Irish-American Poets, 



AND A COMPLETE DEPARTMENT OF 



AUTHENTIC BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



COLLECTED *Kn F.DITED BV 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



JAN 12 1888 s 

PUBLISHED BY THE EDITOR. 

28 UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK. 
1887 



n 






iMitt-red according to Act of Congress. 

in the year 1S87, by 

DANIEL CONNOLLY, 

n tl)e Office of the Librarian of I'ongr 

at Washington, D. C. 



PREFACE. 



As the compilation of Poetry contained in this book has been prepared in the belief 
that its merit will sufficiently commend it to the public, an extended introduction to it is not 
deemed necessary. A few words bearing upon the character and influence of Irish poetry, 
and especially Irish national poetry, by writers whose authority to speak upon the subject is 
beyond any doubt, may, however, be given. And first, the glowing phrases of Thomas 
Davis, in one of his mosteloquentand stirring national essays. " National poetry," he says, 
"is the very flowering of the soul, — the greatest evidence of its health, the greatest excellence 
of its beauty. Its melody is a balsam to the senses. It is the play-fellow of childhood, 
ripens into the companion of manhood, consoles age. It presents the most dramatic events, 
the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language 
most familiar to us. It shows us magnified, ennobles our hearts, our intellect, our country 
and our countrymen, — binds us to the past by its condensed and gem-like history, to the 
future by examples and aspirations. It solaces us in travel, fires us in action, prompts our 
invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognized 
envoy of our minds among all mankind and to all time. In possessing the power and ele- 
ments of a glorious nationality, we owned the sources of a national poetry. In the combina- 
tion and joint development of the latter, we find a pledge and a help to that of the former." 

One of the first creditable collections of Irish ballad-poetry v/as made by Charles Gavan 
Duffy, in 1845 — a period especially marked by the spirited literary revival attending the 
Young Ireland movement. Speaking of the growth of Irish verse in English words, in his 
preface to that useful and unpretentious book (" The Ballad Poetry of Ireland "), Mr. Duffy 
said: — " Our Anglo-Irish ballads, like our best Anglo-Irish families, grew to be national 
gradually, but instinctively and half consciously. Before the time of Swift, they were chiefly 
written by followers of the Court. They were, of course, satires on the country, or carica- 
tures on the manners and language of the natives. Swift snatched these weapons out of the 
liands of the English faction and turned them against their own breasts. He rescued our 
popular poetry from fribbles on the one hand, and from ignorant strollers on the other ; and 

gave it a vigor and concentration which it never has whollv lost That strange 

tenacity of the Celtic race, which makes a description of their habits and propensities when 
Caesar was still a proconsul in Gaul, true of the Irish people of this day, has enabled them 
to infuse the ancient and hereditary spirit of the country into all that is genuine in our 



P KEF ACE. 



modern poetry. And even the language grew almost Irish. The soul of the countr) 
stammering its passionate grief and hatred in a strange tongue, loved still to utter them in 
its old idioms and cadences; uttering them, perhaps, wiih more piercing earnestness 
because of the impediment, and winning out of the vcr>' difficulty an unconscious grace 
and triumph. Some of the nameless, indefinite charms that win every reader of genuiii- 
Anglo-Irish song are traceable to this source." 

Referring to Mr. Duffy s valuable little volume in his supplemental "Book of Irish Ballads 
which quickly followed it, one of Ireland's most successful poets, Denis Florence MacCartIn 
admirably says: — "To us there can scarcely be anjthing more inteiesting than these 
snatches and fragments of old songs and ballads, which are the chapters of a nation's 
history. Without these, how difficult would it be for the best disposed and the most patri- 
otic amongst us to free our minds from the false impressions which the study (superficial as 
it was) of the history of our country, as told by those who were not her children or her 
friends, had made upon us. Instead of the rude kerns that anti-Irish historians represent 
our forefathers to have been, forever hovering with murderous intent round the fortresses 
of the Pale, we see them, in their own ballads, away in their green valleys and inaccessible 
mountains, as fathers, as brothers, as lovers and as husbands, leading the old patriarchal life . 
with their wives and children, while the air is musical with the melody of their harps and 
the lowing of their cattle ; we sec them hunting the red deer over the brown mountains, or 
spearing the salmon in the pleasant rivers, — or, borne on their swift horses, descending in 
many a gallant foray on the startled intruders of the Pale. What is of more importance, 
we look into the hearts and minds of these people, — we see what they love with such 
passion — what they hate with such intensity — what they revere with such sacred fidelity. 
We find they had love, they had hate, they had loyalty, they had religion, they had con- 
stancy, they had an undying devotion for the 'green hills of holy Ireland ;' and as such they 
are entitled to our respect, our attection and our imitation." 

All the conditions pertaining to Irish poetr)- — its inspiration, form, and expression — 
have, however, undergone very great change since the period thus referred to. The songs 
and ballads of the bards belong to a distant age. when all things except human nature itself 
were very different from those of the present time. To-day, the poetry of the Irish race, 
like tlie race itself, is widely scattered. It may, indeed, be said to mingle with the literature 
of the world. Not only are the more popular Irish songs and ballads known in all 
civilized parts of the globe, but many of the most spirited poems relating to Ireland have 
been written thousands of miles distant from the sources of their inspiration. In the 
circumstances of its production, as well is in its most salient characteristics, the poetry 
identified with the Ireland of the present generation and the one preceding it, differs from 
tliat of every other country. All the poets of America, England, Scotland, France, 
Germany. Italy, Spain, have written at home, but it has not been so with their brethren of 
Ireland. Even the most gifted of Erin's minstrels sang some of his sweetest strains in a 
countr)' that was not his own. It is in America, however, which now contains in its great 
national family so many millions of the Celtic race, that the largest and worthiest external 
contributions to Irish poetical literature have been made. Almost as much pKX-try that may 
be called Irish has been written in America during the past thirty or forty years as in 



PREFACE. 



Ireland itself. And it may with truth be added that the intrinsic value of the verse thus 
produced does not sufifer by comparison with the poetry written in Ireland during the same 
period. 

This book, then, is designed to present as complete and varied a collection of the best 
Irish and Irish- American poetry as can be oflfered in a single volume of convenient size. 
Much time and care have been given to its preparation, and a distinct purpose to make it 
worthy of the title selected for it has guided all the research and other labor it has 
demanded. As an actual cyclopedia of the poetry of Ireland and the Irish race, it takes a 
place that has not hitherto been occupied. The various collections of Irish verse which 
have from time to time appeared have been restricted in character and material, and have, 
consequently, failed to meet the demand for a complete work of this kind. An exception 
might, perhaps, be made in the case of the " Ballads of Ireland" compiled a generation ago 
by Edward Hayes ; but in addition to the circumstance that it is now practically out of print, 
that collection contained very few poems written later than 1850, or by other than distinc- 
tively native Irish authors. The ground covered by it was, therefore, necessarily limited, and 
to the present generation the book is but little known. 

Much good poetry drifts hither and thither on the stream of fugitive verse, and, if not 
wholly lost, is likely to become forgotten. Many of the pieces here presented have been 
rescued from the oblivion that seemed awaiting them in this way. It is not improbable that 
some others of equal merit have escaped the Editor's search, but it may at least be said that 
the search has been made with an active desire to obtain all worthy poems of this class 
which it was possible to find. It has not proved practicable to examine every publication in 
which such poems may have appeared, but all available means to discover good fugitive 
pieces have been employed, with results which, it is hoped, will be accepted as showing an 
impartial purpose in performing this somewhat difficult part of the work. 

In arranging the poems according to the theme or motive of each, rather than chrono- 
logically, or by inserting all the pieces by each author in consecutive order, the Editor has 
followed the plan of the well-known " Household Book of Poetr\'," and the Library of 
Poetry and Song," edited respectively by Charles A. Dana and William CuUen Bryant. 
This has been done because the plan appears to be the most systematic of the many where- 
on compilations of poetry have been prepared. It has involved much labor which could 
have been avoided by adopting any of the more usual methods ; but a desire for thorough- 
ness in every respect has prevailed over all other considerations, and it is believed that the 
readers of the book will find the arrangement convenient and satisfactory. A perplexing 
difficulty has been to find for each poem a place exactly suited to its theme, and this, it 
must be confessed, has not been wholly overcome. A few pieces may possibly appear mis- 
placed, but in extenuation of this fault it may be said that a gem is usually valued for itself, 
without special reference to its setting. If the divisions were ten times the number they 
are. some poems might still seem to be out of their proper place. 

It will be observed that the part of the book occupied by humorous verse is not large. 
It could easily be extended by inserting pieces of the kind called "comic," whereof there is 
an offensive and quite unnecessary abundance. But this kind of verse is, in the main, 
merely vulgar, and wholly unfit for admittance into decent company. Much of it that 



PREFACE. 



passes as Irish is not Irish at all. but was written by persons totally incajKiblc of giving ir. 
song or otherwise, the peculiar and elusive lights and shades of true Irish humor. Some, 
however, is due to writers of Irish birth, who could easily have found better use for such 
talent as they possessed than to exercise it for the .gratification of depraved tastes, whether 
among their own people or others. .Ml verse of this class is rigorously excluded from the 
present compilation, as it should be from every book having the slightest claim to a respec- 
table character 

As a few of the writers introduced are but remotely Irish, the propriety of introducing 
them at all may possibly be questioned. It should, therefore, be said that no broader claim 
than the circumstances warrant is made in the case of any of these. They are not presented 
as Irish, but simply as poets who are partly, at least, of Irish extraction. It would be 
obviously absurd, for example, to put the name of Mrs. Whitman or Dr. English on a list of 
Irish poets, the blood of each having been well mixed on American soil. A kindred state- 
ment may be made with reference to a few who were born in England. Any reader who is 
curious to know why such writers are included in the book will find the reason set forth in 
the Biographical Notes. The lines of Irish connection are there plainly and carefully drawn. 

No effort has been spared to make the Biographical Notes full and accurate in all 
essential respects. They are compiled from the results of diligent inquiry and research, and 
can be commended as strictly authentic. It is not supposed that all readers of the poems 
will consult them, but it is believed that those who do so will thereby enhance their appre- 
ciation of the book as a whole. In some cases the notes have a direct bearing on the 
poems, and the author and his verses should be brought together to assure a proper under- 
standing of his motive. So far as the Editor is aware, the plan of giving what is substan- 
tially a dictionary of authors, in a special department, has not hitherto been used in a book 
of this character. 

The work now completed was undertaken solely from a conviction that it needed to be 
done. Several schemes similar in purpose to the one it represenu have been projected 
from time to time, but the work itself has remained unperformed. In the form in which 
it now stands, it represents several years of labor, pursued with a fixed purjxjse to reach a 
worthy end. It doubtless contains some defects, but not many books of the class to which 
it belongs are perfect in the eyes of all who read them. All that can be desired is, that it 
will be judged with fairness, and received with such favor as it may deserve. It is, at all 
events, the first complete compilation of good Irish and Irish-American poetrj' that has 
been placed before the public. 

In the course of its preparation much valuable aid has been rendered by various friendly 
hands, both in Ireland and throughout the United States. For all such assistance, which 
has in some instances amounted to cooperation, and for many courtesies kindly extended 
by publishers, the Editor's most cordial thanks are due. An undertaking in which much 
pleasure has lightened labor is now closed, but its results, it is hoped, will endure 

D. C 

New York, 1887 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



O Poet Prophets ! God hath sent ye forth 
With lips made consecrate by altar fire, 
To guide the Future, not to tread the Past ; 
To chant in glorious music Man's great Hymn, 
The watchword of Humanity — Advance ! 
Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness and Truth, 
High aims, high purposes and self-control, 
Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand 
With crowned angels before God's great throne. 
The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, 
Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life 
The rainbow-arch, to save us from despair ; 
Quickens the stagnant energies to act. 
Bears the advancing banner of the age, 
Full in the van of all Humanity ; 
And with a strength God-given, rolls the stone. 
As angels may, from off the sepulchre 
Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS, 



ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 

The Little Sister's Song i35 

The Lonely Flower 31S 

The Burial of Moses 709 

Alex.vnder, William (Bishup). 

Born in Ireland, 1824. 

Sonnets on Memory 240 

Death of an Arctic Hero 644 

Below and Above 684 

Allingham, William. 

Born in Ireland, 1828. 

Oh ! Were my Love 43 

Lovely Mary Donnelly 55 

The Milkmaid 63 

Among the Heather 84 

The Pilot's Pretty Daughter 90 

Lullaby , I33 

The Bright Little Girl 135 

To the Nightingales 1 5° 

The Winding Banks of Erne 176 

Abbey Assaroe i8g 

The Touchstone 214 

The Ruined Chapel 263 

The Maids of Elfinmere 335 

The Fairy Shoemaker. . : 351 



• Lady Alice 574 

The Abbot of Innisfallen 713 

Anster, John. 

Born in Ireland, 1793 ; died, iS'^7. 

Oh ! If as .•Xrabs Fancy So 

The I-airy Child 138 

The Everlasting Rose 156 

Walpurgis Night 376 

Dirge Song 613 

.\RMSTRONG, Edmund John. 

Born in Ireland, 1841 ; died, 1865. 

Suspiria iy2 

To Wicklow iiji 

.\ Dedication 319 

Among the Slain 578 

Mary of Clorah 615 

Armstrong, George Francis. 

Born in Ireland, 1845. 

A Man's Devotion 113 

Wicklow 190 

In Meditation 316 

The Singer 329 

The Satyr 375 

The Wreck oft M izcn Head 500 

The Glen of the Horse 501 

Work Song 508 



INDEX OF AUTHOK! 



Slain in the Forefront 6oi 

The Christ 662 

A Psalm of Hope 685 

Ashe, Isaac. 

A phyncian, born in Ireland. 

When my I.ove is Failing 682 

Banim, John. 

Born in Ireland, 1798 ; died, 1842. 

.Villcen 68 

Soggarth Aroon 232 

Barry, Michakl Joseph. 

Bom in Ireland ; wrote in 48 period. 

Bide Your Time 416 

The Place to Die 451 

The Wexford Massacre O18 

Beamish, Fi.<irenck. 

Sleep on, Mavourneen 71 

Berkeley, George (Bisiioh). 

Born in Ireland, 1684; died, 1753. 

The Course of Empire 215 

Blacker, William. 

Born in Armagh, Ire., 1775; died in 1855. 

Oliver's Advice 471 

The Nativity 678 

Blake, Mary E. 

Born in Ireland ;— Boston, .M.->m. 

Away From Home 118 

The I.ittle Sailor Kiss 133 

A Little .Mothers Lesson 140 

Morning 163 

Twilight 164 

Compensations 232 

Singing and Sighing 329 

Our Record 425 

Going and Coming 496 

A Dead Summer 566 

The Birthnight 626 

BoTTA, Anne Charlotti; Lvnch. 

Bom in Vermont ;— New ^'ork. 

By the Sea 166 

Books 212 

Accordance 219 

Sweetness 219 

Wasted Fountains 224 

Paul at Athens 7' i 

UouciCAULT. Dion. 

Born in Dublin, 1822. 

The Wearing of the Green 432 

Hovi.E, Esmeralda. 

Born near Washington, D.C. 
Unison 680 



Boyle, John. 

Bom in Ireland, about 1832 ; died, i£S5. 

Object Lessons for Eithna 135 

The Voice of Spring 144 

The Robin Redbreast 148 

My Argosy 223 

San Salvador 273 

MinnieBeck 315 

To the Lyre 331 

To Ireland 389 

I Address to a Patriot 444 

! Arthur ^f cCoy 454 

'' The Knight's Remorse 574 

I Indications 692 

I Brenan, Joseph. 

I Bora in Ireland, 1838; died, 1857. 

I Not for Rank or Gold 48 

I Come to me. Dearest 106 

I Florence, my Child 128 

Blindness 213 

A Prison Dream 236 

Oblivion 238 

An Exile's Dream 411 

Bronte, Charlotte. 

Bom in England, 1816 ; died, 1855. 

Preference S5 

Life 221 

Evening Solace 293 

Bronte, Emily. 

Born in England, 1818 ; died. 1848. 

A Day Dream 321 

To Imagination 372 

Brooke, R. S. (Rev.). 

An Episcopal Rector, t}orn in Ireland. 
Light and Shade 



693 



Brouuham, John. 

Bom in Ireland, 1810 ; died. 1S80. 

Polly O'Connor ' 1 

My ain Donald 59 

The Hymn of Princes 250 

Peace and War 251 

The Sword of Fontenoy j'"' 

Brown, Frances. 

Bom in Ireland, 1816 ; died. 1879. 

Absent Children 130 

If That Were True 212 

The Winters 230 

The Pleasant Days of Old 237 

What Hath Time Taken ? 245 

Songs of Our Land 401 

Losses %i*> 

The Four Travellers 597 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Browx, John Patrick. 

Born in Philadelphia, Pa., 1839. 

The Wedding— a Duet 

Givet 

The Color Bearer 

Buckley, R. W. (Rev.). 

Appears in *' Lyra Hibernica Sacra " as Curate 
of St. Peter's, Dublin. 

Evensong 

King Edwin 

Butler, Thom.-\s Ambrose (Rev.). 

Horn in Ireland, 1837:— St. Louis, Mo. 

The Lost Home 

Butler, William Archer (Ri:v.). 

Born in Ireland, 1814; died, 1847. 

On a Child at Play 

Song of the Streams 

The Patriarchal Time 

Callanan, Helena. 

Born in Ireland, about 1864. 

Withered Flowers 

Saint Agnes 

Callanan, J.\mes Joseph. 

Born in Ireland, 1795 ; died, 1829. 

Govigane Barra 

Sweet Avondu 

Lines to Erin 

Dirge for O'SuUivan ISeare 

Pure is the Dewy Gem 

Mary Magdalen 

Campion, John T. 

A physician, born in Ireland. 

Charity 

Good Morning 

Carleton, William. 

Born in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1869. 

My Mountain Glens 

The Churchyard Bride 

Carpenter, Henry B. (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland, 1840 -Boston, Mass. 

Vive Valeque 

Beyond the Snow 

Carroll Malone. 

The Orangeman's wife 

Casey, John Keegan. 

Born in Ireland, 1846 ; died, 1870. 

Song of Golden Headed Niamh 

Donal Kenny 

Christmas Memories 

The Missioner 

Our Noble Irish Girls 



How Have Ye Labored? 414 

j The Rosemary Crown : . 420 

172 Ihe Rising of the Moon 458 

^^^ 1 Cassidy, P.\trick Sarsfield. 

■♦'" Born in Ireland;-New York. 

The Sovereign People 510 

Robert Emmet 633 



6S7 



Charlotte Elizabeth. 

Authoress of the " Siege of Derry," etc. 

The Maiden City 474 

Cherry, Andrew. 

Born in Ireland, 1762 ; died 1812. 

The Bay of Biscay, O ! 172 

The Green Little Shamrock 302 



Clarke, Joseph L C. 

Born in Ireland ;— New York. 

A Decade of Love 44 

Speculum Vita; 250 

Waiting for Washington 4SS 

Cleary, T. S. 

Born in Ireland. 

Sledge and Pen. . . -. 517 

CoLLiER, Thomas Stephens. 

Born in New York, J842. 

Sun Glow 161 

Recompense 23a 

Three Sonnets 240 

What is the Gain ? 24S 

Sacrilege 256 

Sun Burst 421 

Collins, William. 

Born in Ireland ;-New York. 

Our Own Land 39g 

The Ride to Arboe 455 

Moylan at Monmouth 489 

Connolly, Daniel. 

Born in Ireland ; — New York. 

Trout Fishing 174 

Memories of the Erne 17S 

Compensation 231 

Jasper Dean 266 

The Eyes of an Irish Girl 314 

Erina Regina 386 

A Lay Sermon 412 

The Leap for Life 460 

Evicted 5S8 

One Summer N'iifht 601 

Mitchel — 1S75 62y 

Connolly, Olivia Knight. 

Born in Ireland ;— Australia. 

Where are the Knights .' 305 

Sympathies 316 



lO 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PACE 

The Story of a Star 298 

Seed Time and Harvest 420 

The Green Klag 431 

St. John's live . . 715 

CoNWAv, Katherinf, Eleanor. 

Born 111 Rochcsief. N. V., 1853. 

Remembered 77 

A Song in May Time 146 

Blooming out of Time 1 56 

In a Strange Land 220 

Out of the Shadow of Deatli 389 

Another June 564 

A Memory 565 

My I-'ather's House 683 

Lotus and Lily 688 

Cowan, Samiel K. 

Born in Ireland, 1850. 

Hccalined 262 

The Bnricd Bells 264 

The Voice of the Wind 320 

Easter Voices 679 

Harvest Time 6(/) 

Cowan, William (Rev.). 

-An Episcopal clergyman. Diocese of Dcrry. 

Christmas (177 

Crawi-ord.Jilia. 

r.ornin Ireland. 

We Parted in Silence 77 

Dublin Hay 5S4 

Crillv, Damki.. 

Born in Ireland. 

The Men of To-day 425 

Toast-Song 440 

Croker, Thomas Crofton. 

Born in Ireland, 1798 ; died 1854. 

Cormac and .Mary 348 

Croly, George (Rev.). 

Bom in Ireland, 1780; died 1860. 

Hymn of the Universe 143 

The Alhambra 197 

Messolonghi's Ruins igS 

I'ericles and Aspasia 257 

The Atlantic 33S 

Leonidas 486 

A Dirge 660 

Cro.nin, Patrick (Rr.v.). 

Born in Ireland, 1837 ;— Buffalo, N.V. 

The Wanderer's Home 120 

After Ten Years 299 

Marquette 646 

Sursuni Corda 665 

The I'wo-fold May 689 

The Unfound 699 



Cunningham, John. 

Bom in Oublin, 1739 ; died 1773. 

If I Were Nol Too Young '. fi<. 

.\ I'astoral S_| 

Ct'RRAN, IIkNRV GR.\TTAN. 
Born in Ireland. 

The Wearing of the Green 4;- 

CuRRAN, John Philpot. 

Bom in Ireland, 1750 ; died 1817. 

Cushia Ma-Chree 395 

The Monks of the Screw 539 

Clsack, Mary F. 

Widely known as Ihe " Nun of Kenmare." 

In te Christe (.61 

Darlev, George. 

Bom in Ireland, 1785 ; died 1846. 

Love Song 45 

Steeds of the Ocean i 7<j 

The Fairy Cavalcade 349 

Davis, Eugene. 

Bom in Ireland, 1857. 

Our Vow 415 

Queries 442 

Davis, Francis. 

Bom in Ireland, 1810 ; died, 1885. 

Nanny (j.. 

My Kidia dhu Asthorc (.5 

.My Betrothed 7- 

.\ Visit of the Beautiful 147 

Caste and Creed . 210 

Willie's .Mother 589 

Kathleen Ban Adair 619 

Davis. Thomas. 

Born in Ireland, 1814 ; died 1845. 

The Banks of the Lee 47 

Fanny Power 5 S 

Maire Bhan .\stor 65 

The Welcome 88 

O, the M,->rriage 105 

My Grave 403 

The Penal Days 421 

Our Own .Vgain 426 

The Green .\bove the Red 430 

The Geraldines 433 

O'Brien of .■\rra 452 

Fontenoy 467 

The Sack of Baltimore 5S0 

Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill 647 

DERMonv, Thomas. 

Bom in Ireland, 1775; died, i8oz. 

The Pleasures of Poesy 323 

On Songs 326 

Sons of Hapless Erin 395 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Desmond, Daniel. 

Born in Ireland. 

The Toilers 519 

De Vere, Aubrey (.Sir). 

Born in Ireland, 1788 ; died, 1846. 

Glengariff 170 

Sad and Sweet 2og 

Columbus 275 

Early Friendship 297 

Sing the Old Song 325 

De Vere, Aubrey Thomas. 

Born in Ireland, 1814 ; died, 1883. 

Florence Maccarthy's Farewell 44 

Implicit Faith 214 

Queen Margaret's Feasting 252 

The Old Land 399 

The Intercession 403 

The Three Woes 417 

The -Music of the Future 418 

The Dirge of Athunree 437 

A Ballad of Athlone 451 

The Faithful Norman 454 

Good Hearted 603 

Grattan 624 

Stella iMatutina 674 

De Vere, Mary Ainge 

Born in Brooklyn, N. Y. 

The False Oracle 75 

A Marriage 75 

A Quiet House 121 

The Spinner 220 

A Poor Mother 243 

The Wind-swept Wheat 26S 

De Vere, Stephen (Sir). 

Of the family of Aubrey De Vere. 

To Maecenas 226 

Intactis Opulentior 227 

Doheny, Michael. 

Born in Ireland; active in '48 moveinenl ; died 
in America. 

Acushla Gal Machree 397 

Donnelly, Eleanor C. 

Born in Philadelphia, Pa. 

The Poet's Little Rival 131 

The -Sleeper's sail 356 

The Fate of the Fairy Swan 36.S 

St. Columba and the Stork 405 

Missing 603 

The Heavenly Fatherland 687 

Dovvden, Edward. 

Bom in Ireland, 1843. 

A Dream 46 

In the Garden 161 



Oasis 250 

Wise Passiveness 2gl 

The Singer's Plea 2gi 

The Inner Life 694 

DovvLiNii, IJaktholomew. 

Born in Limsrick, Ireland. 

The Brigade at Foutenoy 46S 

DowLiNo, Jeremiah ]. 

A Physician, born in Tipperary. 

The Claddagh Boatman 300 

Dowi.iNO, Richard. 

Horn in Ireland, 1846. 

Good-Bye 78 

The Bohemian's Ballad 330 

Downing, Ellen. 

Born in Ireland about 1830. 

Talk by the Blackwater 69 

Conal and Eva 73 

Welcome Home to You 88 

Were I But His Own Wife 107 

The Old Castle 189 

Drennan, William. 

Born in Ireland, 1754 ; died, 1820. 

Charity to Man 295 

Erin 391 

The Wake of William Orr 645 

Drew, Thomas (Rev). 

Born in Limerick, 1800; died, 1S57. 

Life's Last Hour 670 

Drummond, William Hamilton. 

Born in Ireland, 1778 ; died, 1S65. 

The Bed of Ocean 169 

Old Age 673 

Who is the Foe 674 

Dufferin, Helen Selina (Lady). 

Born in 1807 ; died in 1867. 

Katey's Letter 53 

Sweet Kilkenny Town 54 

The Irish Emigrant's Lament 590 

DuFi-v, Charles Gavan (Sik). 

Born in Ireland, 1816. 

Sweet Sybil 56 

O'Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 94 

The Patriot's Bride 1 1 1 

Song of Innishowen 194 

A Lay Sermon 215 

The Voice of Labor 520 

Egan, Maurice Francis. 

Born in Philadelphia, Pa., 1852. 

The Anxious Lover 40 

Cyclops to Galatea 86 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Dangerous Frankness I13 

When Mothers Watch 131 

The Hitter Sweet 242 

Maurice de Guerin 255 

Theocritus 290 

Kra Angelico 256 

The String of the Rosary 672 

Emmet, Rohkht. 

Bom in 1778 ; died in i8oj. 

Arbor Hill ig2 

Enoi.ish, Thomas Di'nn. 

Bom in Philadelphia, Pa., 1819. 

Lullaby 134 

Song of Fire 202 

Ben Holt 298 

Akeratos 256 

The Fight at Lexington 490 

Jack, the Regular 492 

The Charge by the Ford 497 

Fahy, Francis A. 

Bom in Ireland. 

The Flower of the Flock 62 

The Ould Plaid Shawl 527 

Falconkr, Edmund. 

Bom in Ireland ; dramatist. 

Killarney 187 

Farkeli., Joseph (Rev.). 

Bom in Ireland, 1841; died, 1885. 

Judith 242 

What the Sea Said 2O3 

Faussett, Alessie Bond. 

Bora in County Tyrone. Ireland. 

The Death of St. Columba 649 

Ferguson, Samiel (Sir). 

Bom in Ireland, 1810; died, 1E86. 

My Owen Hawn Con 64 

The Little Maiden 134 

The Liffey I75 

Three Thoughts .' 20S 

The F'airy Well of Lagnanay 348 

The Naming of CuchuUin 475 

The Gascon O'Oriscoll 4S3 

The Forging of the Anchor 512 

Thomas Davis, His Life, etc 626 

The Burial of King Cormac 650 

The Morning's Hinges 663 

Flemin<:, Martin J. 

Born near Rochester, N. Y. 

Mortality 277 

li.ETciiKR. Henry M. 

Burn in Ireland. 

l!y a Daisy-browed Str;ime 5^ 

llarry'sAway 7' 



Flood, Henry. 

Born in Ireland, 1733 ; died, 1791. 
O, Mighty Fame 259 

Forrester, Arthur M. 

Born in Ireland, 1850;— New York. 

Old Boreen 3 ' 

The Felons of our Land 440 

The Three Knights 4()9 

F'orrester, Eu.e.n. 

Bom in Ireland, 1831 ; died, 1883. 

The Mother's Warning 

The Bonnie Gray Mare s2 

A Letter from Home 120 

The Widow's Message to htr Son 233 

Friends across the Sea 297 

The Songs of \jan% .Vgo 326 

God Help the Poor 519 

F'ORRESTER, F",\NNY. 

Daughter of the preceding; born in England. 

.\ Summer Song 147 

Forgive and Forget 299 

Spoken in .■Xnger 571 

Fraser, John De Jean. 

Bora in Ireland, 1809 ; died, 1849. 

My Connor 1 10 

Clondallagh 188 

The Poet to his Son 270 

Our Course 4'5 

Furlong, Thomas. 

Bom in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1827. 

Mary Maguire 61 

The Spirit of Irish Song 326 

Oh. Ireland, my Country 399 

Blest be that Strain 699 

Gallagher, James T. 

Bom in Ireland ;— New ^■«^rk. 

Self-Reliance 406 

The Exile to his Son 4«o 

Gallagher, William Davis. 

Born in Philadelphia, Pa. 

Song of the Pioneers 123 

The Cardinal Bird 15' 

(ireen Hills of Adair 1S5 

The Better Day 510 

Forcvcrmore 5^7 

Song of the Seraphim <'72 

Geary, Eugene. 

Bom in Irel.nnd. i86j ;— New York. 

Father Dan 126 

Maloga's Holy Well 187 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



n 



GeoghegaX, Arthur Gerald. 

Born in Ireland. 

The Monks of Kilcrea 344 

After Aughrim 420 

Tyrell's Pass 463 

Geoghegan, Mary. 

Daughter of the precedini,'. 

An April Day 145 

A November Day 160 

Geoghegan, William. 

Born in Ireland, 1844 ;— New York. 

The Inney's Side 179 

A Morning Dream 293 

GiLMORE, Minnie. 

Born in Boston, Mass. 

At the Tryst 70 

A Harvest Idyl 74 

The House of the Children 1 2() 

Missing 316 

A Song of Contrast 5f)7 

A Last Lullaby 569 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Born in Ireland, 1728 ; died, 1774. 

The Hermit g2 

The Deserted Village 277 

The Traveller 281 

On Burke 286 

On Garrick 286 

The Logician Refuted 547 

Elegy on a Mad Dog 551 

Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 552 

Gr.wes, Alfred Percival. 

Born in Ireland, 1846. 

Ki'ty Bahn 57 

Often I Dream of the Day 8l 

The Bank of the Daisies 83 

The Blue, Blue Smoke 122 

Fan Fitzgerl 525 

Spinning Wheel Song 526 

The Galway Mare 535 

Father 0"Flynn 535 

The Wreck of the Aideen 585 

The Black Forty-si.x 58S 

Gray, Jane L. 

Born in Ireland, 1800. 

Reminiscences 1 26 

Morn... 220 

Griffin, Gerald. 

Born in Ireland, 1803 ; died, 1840. 

- Aileen Aroon 59 

Gilie Machree 63 

A Place in thy Memory 76 



O, Sweet Adair 185 

Life's Voung Day 289 

The Merriest Bird 330 

The Isle of the Blest 337 

The Bridal of Malahide 578 

The Sister of Charity 703 

GuiNEV, Louise Imogen. 

Bom in Boston, Mass., 1861. 

Adventurers 130 

(Gloucester Harbor 132 

Orient Born 1 36 

The Rival Singers 254 

Brother Bartholomew 271 

Charandos 4S9 

After the Storm 585 

Halpine, Charles Graham. 

Born in Ireland, 1829 ; died, 1868. 

Thine Eyes of Blue 49 

My Southward Winging Oriole 74 

lanette's Hair 106 

The Tropic Bird 1 50 

The Ruby Ring 289 

The Nymph of Lurlieberg 315 

Stamping Out 444 

Truth in Parenthesis 532 

Widowology Philosophized 532 

In Buckinham Palice 541 

Only Some Relics 575 

An Exile's Grave 609 

On Raising a Monument to the Irish 

legion 637 

A Vesper Hymn 663 

Ha.milton. Anna Elizabeth. 

Born in Dublin, 1843; died, 1S75. 

The Garden Sepulchre 698 

Hamilton, William Rowan. 

liorn in Dublin, 1805 ; died, 1863. 

Prayer for Calm 673 

O Brooding Spirit 676 

Harding, Edward. 

Born in Ireland, 1849. 

Parted 50 

Nightfall 164 

The Poet 322 

Trust 696 

Heiburn, David. 

Author of " Lays and Leeends of Donegal." 

Three Trout a Day 536 

HlLDEKKAND, ANNA LOUISA. 

Born in Turlough, Castlerea, County Galway. 

The Four Mountains 710 



•4 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PACK 

Hoi.MHS, Er»ioND G. A. 

Horn in Ireland, 1850. 

'Ilie I vory Gate 49 

Childhood's Home 117 

Nature's Answer 165 

The Coast of Clare 17' 

Sage — Poet — Saint 211 

Waiting for the Dawn f>io 

Hughes, John (.\rchbishoi'). 

Born in Ireland, 1797; died, 1S64, 

To the Home of my Fathers 39S 

The Rainbow of Hope 697 

Im-.ram, John Kells. 

Born in Ireland, about 1820. 
The Memory of the Dead 445 

Irwin, Thomas Caulkielu. 

I^orn in Ireland, 1833. 

The Peasant's Pilgrimage gi 

Song of All-Hallow's Eve 125 

My Garden by the Sea 168 

To an Urn 255 

Spirit Company 293 

Lucy's Attire 311 

Hearth Song 324 

My Violon 331 

A Vision of Eire 396 

The Potato Digger's Song 511 

The Irish Reaper's Song 514 

Only a Woman's Hair 577 

Jordan, Margaret E. 

Born in Portland, Maine. 

Three Kisses 133 

Ingratitude 700 

The Burden of the Day 701 

JiivrE, Patrick Weston. 

Born in Ireland, 18J5. 
The Land of Rest 355 

Joyce, Rohert Dwyer. 

Born in Ireland, 1830 ; died, 1883. 

Sweet GlengarifTs Water 71 

Gwendoline and her Dove 87 

I )eirdre and the King 96 

Roving Bryan O'Connell 1 10 

The Sun and the Flowers 158 

Reflections 23S 

Ode to Poverty 307 

The Green and the Gold 43° 

Crossing the Blackwater 452 

The Blacksmith of Limerick s3: 

The Rights of Man 515 

The Burning of Kilcolcman 581 

The Angel 671 



Kane, John. 

Bom in Ireland. 
The Bells of I .ondonderry 197 

Kavanaii, Rosi-. 

Bom in County Tyrone, Ireland. 
Ixiugh Bray 179 

Keegan, James (Rev.). 

Bom in Ireland, i8«o ; -St. I^uis, Mo. 

f )ssian 247 

The Bards of Old 248 

Keegan, John. 

Bora in Ireland. 1809 ; died, 1840. 

The Dying Mother's Lament ;68 

Caoch the Piper 5*7 

The Holly and Ivy Girl 594 

The Dark Girl at the Holy Well 595 

Keli.y, Eva Mary. 

Born in Ireland, about 1830. 

Tipperary '95 

The Irish Minstrel 4'-'!* 

The People's Chief 44' 

A Caoine 59* 

Kelly, Thomas (Rev.). 

Born in Dublin, 1769 ; died, 1855. 

Christ is Born 679 

On the Mountain's Top 679 

Kelly, William D. (Rf.v.). 

Born in Irt^land, 1846 ;— lUwlon, Mass. 

Maying 83 

By September Seas 168 

Tom Moore 627 

I )enis Florence McCarthy 631 

Decoration I )ay 639 

Keneallv, William. 

I Bom in Ireland. 

' The Last Request sSb 

Kenny, Jame.s. 

Bom in Ireland, 1780 ; died, 1849, 

Love's Remonstrance 42 

Why are you Wandering Here ?. 5S 

Keitel, Caroline (Lady). 

Bora in England. 
Robin Adair 59 

Kickham, Charles Joseph. 

Bom in Ireland, 1835 ; died, 1883. 

My Ulick 66 

W'hat's That to Any Man ? 300 

Roryofthe Hills 457 

In the Night-time 517 



IXDEX OF AUTHORS. 



KiRCHHOKFER, Jui.IA G. M. 
Born in Cork, 1855 ; died 1878 
Silence 6i;7 

Knovvles, James Sheridan. 

Bom in Ireland, 1784 ; died, 1862 

Virginius in the Forum 258 

Tell Among the Mountains 258 

Lane, Denny. 

Born in Ireland. 

Klate of -Vrraglen 54 

Up for the Green 431 

Lanigan, GkorgEiT. 

Born in Canada, i'45 ; died, 1886. 

The Godmother's Gift 137 

The Golden Bridge 253 

A Threnody 549 

On the Height 686 

Leckey, William E. H. 

Born in Ireland, 183S. 

On an Old Song 271 

Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan. 

Bom in Ireland, 1814 ; died, 1873. 
Shemus O'Brien 479 

l.EVER, Charles James. 

Born in Ireland, 1806 ; died, 1872. 

Mary Draper 526 

The Widow Malone 531 

The Man for Galway 535 

Bad Luck to this Marching 538 

It's Little for Glory I Care 538 

Locke, John. 

Born in Ireland ;— Xew Yorl; 

Irish Love Song 46 

Christmas Hearths 124 

Morning on the Irish Coast 171 

The Midnight Mass for Sarsfield 646 

Lover, Samuel. 

Torn in Ireland, 1797 ; died, iS68. 

What will you do, Love ? 44 

The Pilgrim Harper 57 

Forgive, but don't Forget 76 

The Silent Farewell 78 

The Angel's Whisper 137 

The Fairy Boy 13S 

The Indian Summer 296 

The Four-leaved Shamrock 302 

Kitty McClure 528 

Molly Carew 528 

Rory O'Moore 529 

Lanty Leary 530 

Widow Machree 531 

How to Ask and Have 534 



Lysaoht, Edward. 

Bom in Ireland, 1763 ; died, 1810. 

Kate of Garnavilla 53 

Sweet Chloe 313 

From Bondage Free 315 

.Maginn, William. 

Born in Ireland, 1794 ; died, 1841. 

Waiting for the Grapes 290 

The First Appearance of Helen 374 

The Seige of Magdeburgh 482 

.\n Imitation of Scott 543 

Mahony, Rowland B. 

Born in Buffalo, N. Y., 1864. 

To the Wind Flower 15S 

An Arcady 320 

The Cjates of Dreams 321 

Nepenthe 563 

Easter 677 

Mahony, Francis S. (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland, 1804 ; died, 1866. 

Time and Love 41 

The Bells of Shandon 196 

The Angel of Poetry 324 

The Mistletoe 368 

Malbrouck 547 

Epitaph on Father Prout 550 

Beranger's Autobiography 551 

Maiden, Pray for Me._ 569 

The Dog of the Three Days 604 

Obsequies of David the Painte,- 642 

Mangan, James Clarence. 

Bom in Ireland, 1803 ; died, 184 .. 

The Woman of Three Cows 233 

Twenty Golden Years .\go 245 

.V Song from the Coptic yi~ 

The Fairies' Passage 352 

Soul and Country 3S3 

I )ark Rosaleen 404 

Lament for Banba 436 

Cahal Morof the Wine-red Hand 438 

The White Lady 573 

The Nameless One 59S 

The Time of the Barmecides 604 

The Wail and Warning of the Three Klialen- 

deers 605 

Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyr- 

connell 652 

St. Patrick's Hymn Before Tara O57 

O Mary, Queen of Mercy 723 

Mannix, Marv E. 

Born in New 'N'ork, 1846. 

.■\n Irish Maiden's Love 47 

Mothers 131 

My Prison 136 



i6 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



One Corpus Chrisli ... 
On a Picture of St. Agnci 
The Child and the Elders 



681 This World is All. 

70a There is a Bleak Ueseri 

"•' Morgan, Sidney (L.\dv). 

„ ., Hum in Ireland, about 1 780' died. 

Marston, Philip Bot rke. 

BominEnKUnd. .850: died, 1887. Kale Kearney 

AKurdcn 78 MiilR. M.vRloS. 



What Two Saw 

Roses and the Nightingale 

Just .\sleep 

.\t Parting 

Garden Fairies 

Love Lies a-dying 



.V1.\TURIN, Edward. 

Bom in Ireland, 1814; died, 1882. 



Born in Chicago, III. 
Shadows of the Sunset. . . 

One Woman 

The Poet 

.\ Border Knight 

MULCHINOCK, Wll.LI.AM P. 
Bom in Ireland. 
Sons of Labor 



The Woods >64 Mulholland, Ros.\ 



The Spirit Bridal . . 
The Cid's Pennon . 



Meaoher, Thom.\s Francis. 

Born in Ireland, J8J3; died, 1807. 

I Would not Die 

The Young Enthusiast 

Miu.iKEX. Richard .\lfred. 

Bom ia Ireland, 1767 ; died, 1815. 
The Groves of Blarney 



Bom in IreUiid. 
Lament of the Riv 

The Builders 

A Prayer 



MONSELL, J. S. B. (Rev.). 

Bom in Londonderry, i8ii ; died 1^75. 
Stabat Mater 1 )olorosa 664 



Failure 

Saint Bridgiil 

MuLLALY, Mary. 

Bom in Ireland ;— New Y< 

The Babes in the Wood 

The Olden Time 

Romance 

Irish Music 

The Many Nameless . . . 



»73 
310 
675 
691 



Meeting the Dead 694 i Mullin, Michael (Rev.) 



Moore, Thomas. 

Bom in Ireland, 1779; < 



, 185J. 



Born in Ireland. 

The Celtic Tongue. 



Bom in England ; 
Music in Nature. 

Contrast 

Haunted 

Presentiment 

MUNSTER, A. D. 
•"arewell 



-NewYorX 



Loves Young Dream 39 .Mlnkittrick, Richard K. 

The Wreath and the Clu-iin 4° | 

Go Where Glory Waits Thee 75 1 

The Feast of Roses 97 

Come, Rest in this Bosom io6 | 

When First I Met Thee "3 | 

The Meeting of the Waters 1 76 

Oft in the Stilly Night 294 

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp 335 ; 

By that Lake 347 I Murphy. K.vfharine. 

Paradise and the Peri 362 Bo™ '" '«'»"'! ; <•■'=''• '8'- ■ 

Sweet Innisfallen 384 ! The Irish Peasant Maiden 

O, Blame Not the Bard 427 j Sentenced to Death 

The Minstrel Boy 428 ^,i„j,.„y j. j (kev.). 

Dear Harp of my Countr>- 42S ^^^^ j^ Ireland. 

OratorPuff 533 „„p^,^,, 

Larry OBrannigans Letters 555 , ^^j ^^^ , 

She is far from the Land 57i ' 

Shall the Harp, then, be Silent? 623 Mirphv, Joseph J 

O, Breathe not his Name <'-4 Appears in " I.y 

Lines on the Death of Sheridan 624 F""*!'. «"="'"•• 

Thou Art, O Cod ! 683 On the Riviera . . 

Come, ye Disconsobte 6S3 A Reverie 



5S6 



Hibernica Sacra " as of Old 



682 
687 



Murray, John Fisher. 

Wrote much in Young Ireland period. 

Dark Margaret 3°^ 

The Lost Wife 597 

Murray, Patrick (Rev.). 

Editor of the " Irish Annual Miscellany." 

The Rock of Cashel 193 

The Sister of Mercy 705 

McCafferi^, Michael J. A. 

Born in New York, of Irish parentage. 
Evening Hymn 671 

McCann, M. J. 

O'Donnell Aboo 457 

McCarthy, Denis Florence. 

Born in Ireland, 1817 ; died, 18S2. 

Love's Language 39 

Kate of Kenmare 52 

The Flower of Cushendall ()2 

Wings for Home 118 

The Awakening 143 

Waiting for the May 146 

The Paradise of Birds 152 

The Vale of Shanganah 184 

To Longfellow 227 

The Irish Emigrant's Mother 234 

Italian Myrtles 291 

A .Shamrock from the Irish Shore 303 

Remonstrance 405 

The Pillar Towers of Ireland 434 

O'Connell 630 

To the Memory of Father Prout 631 

McCarthy, Justin Huntly. 

The Beloved 41 

Amor Tyrannis 75 

Arcadian 146 

The Year's Angels 2O4 

The Gods of Hellas 370 

Ecdicius and Lalage 379 

Adam Lu.x 594 

McCarthy, Mary Stanislaus. 

A nun in Dublin, and daughter of Denis Florence 
McCarthy. 

A Convent Elegy 576 

McClure, William James (Rey.). 

Born at Dobb's Ferry, N. Y., 1842. 

Struggle and Triumph 239 

Winter's Victim 312 

On the Lake 320 

McCuLLAGH, Thomas (Rev.). 

a dissenting Minister ; born in Ireland. 
Moses on Pisgah 708 



McDermott, Hugh Farrar. 

Born in Ireland, 1833 ; — New York. 

My Blind Canary 153 

Last upon the Roll 241 

A Bright Spot in the Sky 308 

The Cobbler 518 

In the Long, Long Ago 567 

McDermott, Martin. 

Born in Ireland. 

A Wooing 6g 

The Irish Exiles 408 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy. 

Born in Ireland, 1825 ; died, 1868. 

The Irish Wife 108 

The Haunted Castle 193 

The Mountain Laurel 258 

The Recusant 2gi 

The Exile's Request 40^ 

The Celts 435 

DeCourcy's Pilgrimage 459 

Lady Gormley 572 

Lost, Lost Armada 584 

God Bless the Brave 632 

The Priest of Perth 639 

The Testament of St. Arbogast 703 

McIlwaine, William (Rev.). 

Rector of St. George's Church, Belfast, Ireland. 

Advent 676 

The I lope of the .Saint 67S 

Harvest Hymn 692 

McKane, James N. 

Ireland; Contributor to "Nation." 

Mac Mahon's Defiance 462 

McKowen, James. 

Born in Ireland. 

My Sailor Boy 73 

Bonnie Twinklin' Starnies 317 

McMullin, Mary A. 

Born in Ireland. 

The P'ireside at Home 121 

The Passing Days C2i 

A Hundred Years from Now 1:49 

The Jiongs of Home 327 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth. 

Born in England, 1807; died, i86g. 

The One You Loved the Best 41 

The Blind Man to his Bride 112 

Farewell, thou Sunny Isle 121 

Rosy Child, with Forehead Fair 137 

Bingen on the Rhine 199 

Oh, Erin, Sweet Erin 395 

The King of Denmark's Ride 600 



i8 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Weep not for Him that Dieth 6lo 

Morning and Evening 724 

O'Brien, Attie. 

Born in County Clart, Irclund; died, 1883. 

Peggy 591 

In Griers Unrest 592 

O'Brien, Fitz-James. 

Born in Ireland about i8a8 ; died, i86a. 

Irish Castles 70 

The Sea 166 

A Fallen Star 228 

The Prize Fight 251 

The Countersign 261 

The Demon of the Gibbet 336 

The Lost Steamship 583 

The Three Gannets 585 

Kane 643 

The Legend of Easter Eggs 721 

O'Callaghan, T. CD. 

Bom in Ireland ;— Brooklyn, N. Y. 
The River of Time 246 

O'CoNNELL, Daniel. 

Born in Ireland, 1S48 ;— San Francisco, Cal. 

The Welcome Rain 148 

Monterey 202 

The Workers 521 

O'Connor, Joseph. 

Bom in New Yorlc, 1841. 

If the Wind Rise 269 

The Fount of Castaly 322 

The White Rose 308 

Riding to Battle 498 

Cavalier's Sword Song 500 

O'Connor, Michael. 

Born in New York, 1837 ; died. 1S62. 

My Beau 72 

The Beauty 312 

Reveille 497 

O'CoNOR, Charles P. 

Bom in Ireland ; — Canada. 

My Darling Child 129 

The Death of Eily 593 

O'DoNNELL, D. Kane. 

The Happy Village 122 

o'DoNNF.Li., John Francis. 

Born in Ireland, 1837 ; dit-d, 1874. 

Limerick Town 181 

On the Rampart 182 

Where ? 307 

Our 1' ailh— Our Fatherland 400 



Not Dead 402 

Goldsmith's Grave 632 

Ireland's Dead in Rome 648 

OtjLE, George. 

Bora in Ireland, i73g ; died, 1814. 

Molly Asthore «■ 

The Banks of Banna N 

O'Hagan, John. 

Bom in Ireland, 1822. 

The Old Story 95 

Dear Land 398 

Ourselves Alone 4'4 

O'Hara, Theodore. 

Born in Kentucky, i8ao ; died, 1867. 

The Bivouac of the Dead 635 

The Old Pioneer 637 

O'KeEFE, .\RTHIR. 

A native of Killarney ; bom, 1S64 ; died, 1883. 

The Prodigals 69(1 

O' Kei.lv, Patrick. 

.\n eccentric character ; early part of present ccn- 

Litany for Doneraile 539 

O'Mallev, Charles J. 

Born in Kentucky. 

Worthiness 2411 

A City Populous 2(1; 

Night after Harvest 6yi 

O'Reilly, John Boyle. 

Bom in Ireland, 1844 ;— Boston, Mass. 

The Priceless Things 20<) 

The Rainbow's Treasure 210 

The Well's Secret 223 

A Lost Friend 224 

The Poison Flower .... 267 

The Amber Whale 33S 

The Treasure of Abram 369 

My Native Land 384 

Ireland— 1882 387 

At Fredericksburg 494 

The Fishermen of We.xford . 5S2 

Wendell Phillips 634 

The Trial of the Gods 712 

O'Rvan, Francis. 

Born in Ireland ;— New York. 

Pleasant Glens of Munster 191 

Kearing the City by Night . 265 

A Bit of Romance 305 

The Plain of Asphodel 373 

O'Ryan, Julia M. 

Born in Ireland. 
The Abbey of Carennac 198 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



19 



The Geraldine's Sleep 343 

The Tintamarre 516 



Orr, James. 

Born in Ireland, 1770 ; died, 1816. 

The Irishman 

The Irish Cottier's Death 

O'Shaughnessey, Arthur. 

Born in England, 1846; died, 188 

Supreme Summer 

Outcry 

The Music Makers 

The Song of a Fellow- Worker. . 
The Fountain of Tears 



A Farewell 570 

OSSIAN. 

CuthuUin's Heroes 477 

Parnell, Fanny. 

Born in Ireland ; died, 1882. 

Will they Return ? 219 

She is not Dead 3go 

Ireland, Mother 392 

Post Mortem 402 

Dragon's Teeth 413 

Justice 416 

What Shall we Weep For ? 419 

At the Ship's Side 565 

The Younger Florus 565 

At Daybreak ... 667 

Thorns and Roses 689 

Parnell, Thomas (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland, 1679 ; died, 1718. 

Hymn to Contentment 242 

Edwin of the Green 353 

Hymn for Morning 636 

Pope, Richard T. (Rev.). 

Born in Cork, 1799 ; died, 1859. 
In Trouble and in Grief 668 

Purcell, Edvi^ard (Rev.). 

Born in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland ; died in 
Cincinnatti, Ohio, 1S81. 
The Autumn Leaf ico 



iEAD, Charles Anderson. 

Born in Ireland, 1841 ; died. 
Beyond the River 



vEiLLY, Thomas Devin. 

Born in Ireland ; active in Forty-eight penod ; 



Riley, James Whitco.mb. 

Born in Indiana, 1853. 
The Clover 



When the Frost is on tl 
Our Kind of a Man . . . 
A Descant on Fame. . . 

Beautiful Hands 

A Canary at the Farm. 
My Fiddle 



Robinson, William E. 

Born in Ireland ;-Brooklyn 
Hail, Brightest Banner . . , 
Roche, James Jeefrev. 

Born in Ireland, 1847; — Bos 

England 

Andromeda 

Sergeant Molly 

For the People 

The V-a-s-e 

A Sailor's Yarn 

The Way of the World . . . 
Hubert the Hunter 



UissELL, Matthew (Rev.). 

Down by the Dodder 

The Great Day 

The Legend of St. Dorothy. 
The First Redbreast 



Ryan, Abram J. (Rev.). 

Born in Virginia, 1840 ; died, 

In Rome 

A Thought 

What Ails the World? 

Wake me a Song 

Erin's Flag 

The Conquered Banner . . . . 

They Never Tell Why 

Sursum Corda 

Out of the Depths 

Song of the Mystic 

RVAN, Carroli . 

Born in Canada, 1839. 

The Convent Porter 

Strada San Giovanni 

Ryan, James. 

Born in Ireland ;— New York. 

Love's Bliss 

The Prayer of Ireland 

Ryan, Margaret. 

Born in Ireland. 

Our Emigrants 

Ryves, Elizabeth. 

Born in Ireland ; died, 1779. 

To Friendship 

Ctesar and Cato 



326 
429 
446 
562 
665 
666 
667 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Sadlier, Mary Anne. 

Bom in Ireland, 1820 ; —Canada. 

Out on the Sea 166 

Song of the Irish- American Soldier 448 

Savage, John. 

Born in Ireland, 1828 ;— New York. 

A New Life 108 

The Bath of the Golden Robin 154 

The Plaint of the Wild Flower 157 

The Sunlit Path 292 

The Dead Year 260 

Shaiin's Head 473 

Game Laws 600 

Seduui's. 

Tlieolagian and Poet ; fifth century. 

De Nativitate Domini 660 

SENNorr, George. 

Bunker Hill Centennial Ode 447 

Serrano, Mary J. 

Bom in Ireland ; — New York. 

Captivity 155 

Lines to an Exotic Plant 157 

Freedom and Love 244 

Dirge 613 

SiiANLY, Charles Dawson. 

Born in Ireland, 1811 ; died, 1875. 

An Idyl of April 145 

The Bricr-wodd Pipe 310 

Christmas in a Lighthouse 261 

The Walker of the Snow 336 

The Trumpet Smith 522 

Civille Bellum ()03 

Dirge (>36 

Shea, John Augustus. 

Bom in Ireland, 1802 ; died, 1845. 

Spirit of Song 325 

The Men of our Island 443 

To America 445 

Washington 446 

The O'Kavanagh 458 

Sheridan, Richard Brinslev. 

Born in Ireland, 1751 ; — died, 1816. 

Had I a Heart So 

To the Recording Angel 108 

The Days when I was Voung 296 

A Portrait 254 

Let the Toast Pass 301 

Sheridan, Thomas. 

Bom in Ireland, 1684 ;— died, 1738. 

Ballyjpellin 186 

A Letter to Swift 549 



SiGERSON, George. 



Bon 



MoCailin Donn c; 

Crossing the Ferry 2<>4 

In the City 522 

Maire ni Milleoin 617 

SiLi.ERY, Charles Dovne. 

Bom in Ireland, 1807 ; died, 1836. 

She Died in Beaut)- 5' 

Simmons, Bartholemew. 

Born in Ireland ; died, 1850. 

The Lost Madonna 114 

The Life of the Sea 167 

The Hudson 183 

The Flight to Cyprus 606 

Napoleon's Tomb 641 

Skidmore, Harriet M. 

Of Irish-American parentage ;— California. 

The Golden Sea 161 

California's Mission Relics 203 

Smythe, G. S. 

Mary Stuart's Last Prayer 676 

St. Coi.umbkille. 

Born Dec. 7, 521;— died June 9, 597. 

Song of Trust 657 

•Sterling, John. 

Bom in Scotland, 1806 ; died, 1844. 

The Dreamer 169 

Prose and Song 325 

The Husbandman 512 

Louis Fifteenth 599 

Hymn of a Hermit 669 

The Penitent 693 

SioKEs, H. G. (Rev.). 
Childhood's Promise 128 

Stokes, Whitley. 

Bom in Ireland ;— London. 

Parting Lovers 42 

King Ailill's Death 472 

Lament for King Ivor 647 

Man's Eight Elements 661 

Si'LLivAN, Margaret F. 

Born in Ireland ;— Chicago, 111. 

In Ages Past 237 

Sympathy 29^. 

Revised 296 

The Famine of 1880 4=3 

A Prayer of Doubt 675 

Si i.i.ivA.N, Timothy Danieu 

Bom in Ireland, 1837. 
The Little Wife 107 



INDEX OF AUTHOnS. 



Steering Home 109 

A Plea for the Song Binis . 149 

The Robin's Song 150 

A National Anthem 385 

Our Own Green Isle 441 

The Tenant at Will 515 

Side by Side 569 

The Nun on the liattle-Field 612 

Thomas Francis Meagher ... 628 

SUI'PLE, G. H. 

South M unster Clans 466 

Sutton, E. A. 

Born in Ireland ;— Canada. 

The St. Patrick's Cross 304 

Swift, Jonathan. 

Bom in Ireland, 1667; died, 1745. 

An Excellent New Song 544 

On Wood the Ironmonger . 550 

On the Death of Dr. Swift 552 

Tate, Nahum. 

Born in Ireland, 1652 ; died, 1715. 

The Man of Wisdom 218 

Christmas Hymn 675 

Taylor, Una Ashworth. 

A Contributor to the Irish National Press. 

The Ring and the Crown 385 

In Exile 409 

TiGHE, Mary. 

Born in Ireland, 1772 ; died, 1810. 

The Vision of Love 45 

At Killarney 1S7 

The Lily 268 

Sympathy 295 

From Sorrow's Depths 695 

Todd, James Henthorn (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland, 1805 ; died, 1S69. 

Lorica S. Patricii 659 

Todhunter, John. 

Born in Ireland, 1839. 

Hither, O Love 43 

Lost — Found 49 

The First Spring Day 144 

The Banshee 387 

Treacy, William P. (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland. 

The Monks of Erin 437 

Trench, Richard Chenevi.x (Archbishop). 

Born in Ireland, 1807 ; died, 1886. 

Be Patient 20S 

The Sirens 221 



Vesuvius 222 

Harmosan 486 

O Hearts of Ours 680 

The Kingdom of God 681 

Gertrude of .Saxony 719 

Tynan, Katharine. 

Born in Ireland, 1861. 

Olivia and Dick Primrose 230 

A Dream 321 

Erin 392 

The Dead Mother 611 

A Tired Heart 672 

Waller, John Francis. 

Born in Ireland, 1810. 

Sweet Kitty Neil 57 

The Spinning Wheel 82 

Welcome as Flowers in May 89 

The .Song of the Glass 32S 

W'alpurgis Night 377 

Derniot and Nora 527 

Agnus Dei 668 

A Christmas Carol 678 

Walsh, Edward. 

Born in Ireland, 1809 ; died, 1850. 

O'Donovan's Daughter . . 60 

Mo Craoibhin Cno 67 

Mairgraed ni Chealleadh 618 

White, John (Rev.). 

A Congregational minister in Belfast. 

We will praise Thee 693 

W^hite, Richard E. 

Born in Ireland, 1S43 ;-San Francisco. 

The Cross of Monterey 714 

The Midnight Mass 715 

Whitman, Sarah Helen. 

Born in Rhode Island, 1813; died, 1878. 

The Maiden's Dream 80 

Don Isle 188 

A Song of Spring 329 

The Sleeping Beauty 359 

The Lost Church 716 

Whyte, David (Rev.). 

Born in Ireland, 1782 ; died, 1872 

New Year 674 

Wilde, Jane Francesca (Lady). 

Born in Ireland. 

Corrinne's Last Love Song 46 

Cristan and Isolde 96 

Man's Mission . 217 

Related Souls 225 

The Poet at Court : 269 

To Ireland 383 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



The Exile 4«o 

The Faithless Shepherds 412 

Le Reveille 4I7 

The Knight's Pledge 499 

The Voice of the Poor 5<'2 

U Via Dolorosa 572 

Aspirations for Death 670 

Wii.DE, Oscar. 

Born in Ireland, 1855. 

Silentium Amoris 77 

Endymion 85 

Impressions 170 

Rome Unvisited 201 

A Vision 261 

Ave Iraperatrix. 



Ballade de Marguerite 602 

Wilde, Richard Henry. 

Bom in Ireland, 1789 ; died, 1847. 

To the Mocking Bird 1 56 

Hymn to Gold 253 

.My Life is Like 3>8 

A Farewell to America 448 

Napoleon's Grave 640 

WiLKiNS, William. 

Bom in Ireland. 

May Carol 5° 

Dei Gratia 



149 



Williams, Richard Dalton. 

Bom in Ireland, about 1822 ; died, 1862. 

To Kathleen 55 

Longing i'9 

Freedom 439 

Munster War Song 466 

The Mine of Tortona 483 

Never Say Die 53^ 

A Reverie 54^ 

A Medical Student's Letter 548 

The Legend of Stiffenbach 554 

The Dying Girl 59^ 

Clarence Mangan 

The Sister of Charity 7^4 



Wills, James (Rev.). 

Bora in Ireland, 1790; died, i848. 

The Burial 614 I 

660 I 



Providence 

The Passing Bell. 






Wilson, Anna T. 

Bora in Ireland ;— New York. 

Across the Gulf 614 

A I'enitent 70O 

Wilson, John Crawford. 

Bom m Ireland, 1835 ; — London. 

Hearts and Flowers 50 

.Sunlight and Shade 80 

St. Patrick and C«sar 540 

The Death of Lily 563 

Wolfe, Charles (Rev.). 

Bom in Ireland, 1771 ; died, 1823. 

Go, Forget Me 76 

Oh, Say not That 319 

If I had Thought 568 

The Burial of Sir John Nfoore 625 

Anonymous. 

My Brideen 67 

The Peasant's Bride ill 

The Olden Time 246 

Man's Mortality 276 

The Cruiskeen Lawn 328 

The Enchanted Island 337 

The Banshee's Summons 359 

The Shan Van Vocht 439 

" No, my Lord." 455 

The Boyne Water 47' 

The Revelry of the Dying 485 

Kitty of Coleraine 525 

The Lover's Complaint 530 

The Maid of Cloghroe 540 

The Poor Man's Darling 589 

King Cormac's Crown 608 

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba 608 

Shane Dymas' Daughter 616 

The Death of King Leury 651 

The Convict and the Cross 706 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Aileen Aroon Gerald Griffin 

Ailleen John Banim. 

Among the Heather. 
Amor Tyrannis . . 

Anxious Lover 

At the Tryst.- 

Bank of the Daisies. . 

Banks of Banna 

Banks of the Lee. . . . 

Beloved, The 

Blind Man to his Bride . . .C. E. Norton. 

Bonnie Gray Mare Ellen Forrester . 

Burden, A P. B. Marston . 

By a Daisy-browed Strame. .A^. M. Fletcher. 
Come rest in this Bosom . . . Thomas Moore. . 



IV. Allingham . 
.J. H. McCarthy 
.M. F. Egan.... 
.Minnie Gilmorc. 
.A. P. Graves... 

. George Ogle 

. Thomas Davis. . 
.J. H. McCarthy 



Come to me. Dearest Joseph Brenan I06 

Conal and Eva Ellen Doii,ning .... 73 

Corinne's Last Love-Song. .Lady Wilde 46 

Cyclops to Galatea M. F. Egan 86 

Dangerous Frankness M. F. Egan 113 

Decade of Love J. I C. Clarke. ... 44 

Deirdre and the King K. D. Joyce 96 

Donal Kenny J. K. Casey go 

Dream, A Edw'd Dowden. ... 46 

Endymion Oscar Wilde 85 

False Oracle M. A. De Vere 75 

Fanny Power Thomas Davis 58 

Feast of Roses Thomas Moore 97 

Florence MacCarthy's Fare- 
well to his English Love. .A. T. De Vere .... 44 

Flower of Cushendall D. F. McCarthy. . . 62 

Flower of the Flock F. A. Fahy 62 

Forgive, but don't Forget . . Samuel Lover 76 

Gille Machree Gerald Griffin 63 

Go, Forget Me Charles Wolfe 76 

Good-bye R. Dowling 78 

Go where Glory waits Thee. Thomas Moore 75 

Gwendoline and her Dove . .R. D. Joyce 87 



Had I a Heart R. B. Sheridan . . 80 

Harry's Away H. M. Fletcher 71 

Harvest Idyl Minnie Gilmore. ... 74 

Hearts and Flowers J. C. Wilson 50 

Hermit, The Goldsmith 92 

Hither, O Love Jno. Todhunter 43 

If I were not too Young.. . .J. Cunningham . ... 60 

Irish Castles Fitz-J. O Btien 70 

Irish Love Song John Locke 46 

Irish Maiden's Love M. E. Mannix. ... 47 

Irish 'Wife T. D. McGee 108 

Ivory Gate E. G. A. Holmes. . . 49 

Janette's Hair C. G. Halpine 106 

Kate Kearney Lady Morgan 53 

Kate of Arraglen Denny Lane 51 

Kate of Garnavilla E. Lysaght 53 

Kate of Kenmare D. F. McCarthy . . . 52 

Katey's Letter Lady Dufferin 53 

Kitty Bahn A. P. Graves 57 

Little Wife T. D. Sullivan. ... 107 

Lost-Found Jno. Todhunter. ... 49 

Lost Madonna B. Simmons . 114 

Lovely Mary Donnelly W. Allingham 55 

Love's Bliss James Ryan 42 

Love Song George Darley 45 

Love's Language D. F. McCarthy. . . 39 

Love's Remonstrance James Kenny 42 

Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore 39 

Maiden's Dream S. ff. Whitman ... 80 

Maire Bhan Astor Thomas Davis. .... 65 

Man's Devotion G. F. Armstrong. ..113 

Marriage, A M. A. De Vere. ... 75 

Mary Maguire Tkos. Furlong 61 

May Carol Wm. Wilkins 50 

Maying W. D. Kelly 83 

Milkmaid, The W. Allingham .... 63 

Mo Cailin Donn Geo. Sigerson 68 

Mo Craoibhin Cno Edw'd Walsh 67 



24 



INDEX OF POEMS 



Molly Asthore Georgt Ogle 66 

Mother's Warning Ellen Forrester ... 8l 

My Ain Donald Jtto. Brougham. .89 

My Beau M. O'Connor 72 

My Betrothed Francis Davis 72 

My Brideen Anonymous 67 

My Connor J. D. Frasei 110 

My Kallagh dhu Asthore. . .Francis DaiHs. ... 65 

My Owen Bawn Con Sam'l Ferguson. ... 64 | 

My 5>ailor Boy _/. McKoiven 73 

My Southward Winging 

Oriole C. G. //alpine .... 74 

My Ulick C.J. Kickham 66 

Nanny Francis Davis 60 

New Life .John Savage 108 

Not for Rank or Gold .Joseph Brenan 48 

O'Donnell and the Fair Fitz- 
gerald C. G. Duffy 94 

O' Donovan's Daughter Edward Walsh. ... 60 

Often I Dream of the Day. .A. P. Graves 81 

Oh, if as Arabs Fancy John Anster. 80 

Oh, were my Love IV. Allingham 43 

Old Story /. O'/fagan 95 

One you Loved the Best . . .C. E. Norton 41 

O, the Marriage Thomas Davis 105 

Outcry A. O'Shaughnessy. . 79 

Parted Edvfd //arding . . 50 

Parting Lovers Whitley Stakes 42 

Pastoral /. Cunningham ... 84 

Patriot's Bride C. G. Duffy m 

Peasant's Bride Anonymous in 

Peasant's Pilgrimage T. C. /nuin 91 

Pilgrim Harper Samuel /Arner. 57 

Pilot's Pretty Daughter W. Allingham 90 

Place in thy Memory Gerald Giiffin 76 



Polly O'Connor Jno. Brougham. ... 61 

Preference C. Bronte 85 

Remembered A". E. Conway 77 

Robin Adair Lady Keppel, 59 

Roving Br)'an O'Connell. ../i. D. Joyce 1 10 

Silent Farewell Samuel /jntr. . ... 78 

Silcntium Amoris Oscar Wilde 77 

Sleep on, Mavourneen F. Beamish 71 

Song of Golden Headed 

Niamh /. K. Casey 86 

Spinning Wheel J. F. Waller 82 

Steering Home T. D. Sullivan. . . .lo<> 

Sunlight and Shade /. C. Wilson 8i« 

Supreme Summer •/. O' Shaughnessy. . 47 

Sweet Glengariff's Water. . . /P. D. Joyce 71 

Sweet Kilkenny Town iMdy Dufferin 54 

Sweet Kitty Neil J.F. Waller 57 

Sweet Sybil C. G. Duffy 5(1 

Talk by the Blackwater Ellen Downing 69 

Thine eyes of Blue C. G. //alpine 49 

Time and Love F. S. Mahony 41 

To Kathleen R. D.Williams.... 55 

To the Recording Angel . . .R. B. Sheridan . . loS 

Tristan and Isolde Lady Wilde 96 

Vision of Love Mary Tighe 45 

Welcome, The Thomas Davis 88 

Welcome as Flowers in May.y. F. Waller 89 

Welcome Home to You . . . .Ellen Downing. ... 88 

We parted in Silence .Julia Crawford. ... 77 

Were I but His Own Wife .Ellen Downing. . . . 107 

What will you do, Love. . . . Samuel Lover. 44 

When First I Met Thee. . . . Thomas Moore 113 

Why are you wandering here .James Kenny 5.'* 

Wooing, A M. McDermott .... fx) 

Wreath and the Chain Thomas .\/oore 40 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Absent Children Frances Brown. ... 130 

Adventurers. L. /. Guiney 130 

Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover. 137 

Away from Home M. E. Blake 118 

Babes in the Wood Mary Mullaly 139 

Blue, Blue Smoke A. P. Graves 122 

Bright Little Girl W. Allingham ... .135 

Childhood's Home E. G. A. Holmes . . 117 

Childhood's Promise //. G. Stokes 128 

Christmas Hearths John Locke 124 

Christmas Memories J. K. Casey 124 

Fairy Boy Samuel Lover 138 

Fairy Child John Anster. 138 

Farewell, thou .Sunny Isle . . C. E. Norton 121 

Father Dan Eugene Geary .... 126 

Fireside at Home M. A. McMullin. ^121 

I'lorence, My Child Joseph Brenan .... 128 



Gloucester Harbor L. /. Guiney 132 

Godmother's Gift G. P. Lanigan 137 

Happy Village D. A'. O'Donnell . . I22 

House of the Children Minnie Gilmore. . . 129 

Letter from Home Ellen Forrester 120 

Little Maiden Samuel h'ergusoii. . . 134 

Little Mother's Lesson M. E. Blake 140 

Little .Sailor Kiss M. E. Blake 133 

Little Sister's Sonj; C. F. Alexander. ... 135 

Longing R. D. Williams 119 

Lost Home T. A. Butler 118 

Lullaby W. Allingham .... 133 

Lullaby T. D. English. . . .134 

Mothers M. E. Mannix 131 

My Darling Child C. P. O' Conor 129 

My Prison M. E. Mannix 136 

Object Lessons for Eithna. .John Boyle 135 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



25 



On a Child at Play. 

Orient Born 

Poet's Little Rival 

Quiet House 

Reminiscences . . . 



.W. A. BulUr.. 
. L. I. Guiney . . 
.E. C. Donnelh . 
.M. A. De Verv. 
.Jane L. Gray. . 



Rosy Child with Forehead 

Fair C. E, iVorton. 



Song of AU-Hallow's Eve. ..T.C. Inuin 

Song of the Pioneers VV. D. Gallagher 

Suspira E.J, Armstrong 

Three Kisses M. E. Jordan. . 

Wanderer's Home Pat'k Cronin. . . 

When Mothers Watch M. E. Egan. . . . 

Wings for Home D. F. McCarthy 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Abbey Assaroe W. Allingham rSg 

Abbey of Carrennac /. M. ff Kyan 198 

Alhambra George Croly 197 

April Day M. Gcoghegan 145 

Arbor Hill Robt. Emmet 192 

Arcadian J. H. McCarthy. . . 146 

At Killarney Mary Tighe 187 

Autumn Leaf Edw'd Purcell 159 

Awakening, The D. F. McCarthy . . . 143 

Ballyspellin Thos. Sheridan ... .186 

Bath of the Golden Robin . .John Savage 154 

Bay of Biscay, O Andrew Cherry . . . .172 

Bed of Ocean ]V. H. Drummond 169 

Bells of Londonderry John Kane 197 

Bells of Shandon F. S. Mahony. . . . ig6 

Bingen on the Rhine C. E. Norton 199 

Blooming out of Time A'. E. Conway 156 

By September Seas IV. B. Kelly 16S 

By the Sea 4. C. L. Botta 166 

California's Mission Relics .//. M. Skidmon .. .203 

Captivity M.J. Serrano 155 

Cardinal Bird W.D. Gallagher. . . 151 

Clondallagh J. D. Eraser 188 

Clover, The /. VV. Riley 162 

Coast of Clare E. G. A. Holmes . . 171 

Dei Gratia IVm. Wilkins 149 

Don Isle S.H. Whitman 18S 

Down by the Dodder M. Russell iSo 

Dreamer, The Jno. Sterling 169 

Everlasting Rose Jno. Anster 156 

First Spring Daj' Jno. Todhunter. . . . 144 

Glengariff Aubrey De Fere ... 170 

Golden Sea //. M. Skidmore. . . l6i 

Gougane Barra /. /. Callanan .... 1 84 

Green Hills of Adair W. D. Gallagher . . 1S5 

Haunted Castle T. D. McGee 193 

Hudson, The B. Simmons 183 

Hymn of the Universe George Croly 143 

Idyl of April C. D. Shanly 145 

Impressions Oscar Wilde 170 

Inney's Side W. Geoghegan 179 

In Rome Abram J. Ryan. . . .200 

In the Garden Edw'd Dowden .... 161 

Killarney E. Falconer 1S7 

Lament of the River R. Mulholland. .... 173 



.167 



163 



Life of the Sea B. Simmons 

Liffy The Sam' I Ferguson. . 

Limerick Town J. F. ffDonnell. 

Lines to an E.xotic Plant ... A^. _/. Serrano... 

Lough Bray Rose Kavanagh. . 

Maloga's Holy Well Eugene Geary . . 

Meeting of the Waters Thomas Moore. . . 

Memories of the Erne D. Connolly 

Messolonghi's Ruins George Croly 

Monterey D. O'Connell .... 

Morning M. E. Blake 

Morning on the Irish Coast.. .John Locke 171 

Music in Nature R. K. Munkittrick. 144 

My blind Canary H. F. McDennott. .1^3 

My Garden by the Sea T. C. Irwin 168 

My Mountain Glens Wm. Carleton 192 

Nature's Answer E. G. A. Holmes. . . 165 

Nightfall Edited Harding. . . .164 

November Day M. Geoghegan 160 

Old Castle Ellen Downing 189 

On the Rampart J. F. O'Donnell ... 182 

O Sweet Adare Gerald Griffin 185 

Out on the Sea M. A. Sadlier 166 

Paradise of Birds D. F. McCarthy. . .152 

Plaint of the Wild Flower. .John Savage 157 

Plea for the Song Birds T. D. Sullivan 149 

Pleasant Glens of Munster. .Francis O' Ryan. . . . 191 

Robin Redbreast John Boyle 148 

Robin's Song T. D. Sullivan 150 

Rock of Cashel Pafk Murray 195 

Rome Unvisited Oscar Wilde 201 

Sea, The Fitz-J. O'Brien 166 

Song in May-time . . .K. E. Conway 146 

Song of Fire T. D. English 202 

Song of Innishowen C. G. Duffy 194 

Song of the Streams W. A. Butler 173 

Steeds of the Ocean George Darley 170 

Summer Song Fanny Forrester . . . 147 

Sun and the Flowers R. D. Joyce 158 

Sun-glow T. S. Collier 161 

Sweet Avondhu J- J- Callanan .... 180 

Tipperary Eva M. Kelly 195 

To the Mocking Bird R. H. Wilde 156 

To the Nightingales W. Allingham 150 

To the Wind Flower R. B. Mahany 158 



INDEX OF POEM6. 



To Wicklow h. J. Armstrofti;. . . iqi 

Tropic liird C. G. Halfine 150 

Trout Kishing D. Connolly 174 

Twilight M. E. Blake 164 

Vale of Shatigaiiah D. F. AfcCarthy. . . 184 

Visit of the Beautiful Francis Datns 147 



Voice of Spring . 



Waiting for the May j'. r. .i/< i <ir,riy . .140 

Wedding, The ./. F. Brown 172 

Welcome Rain A O'Connell 148 

When Krost is on the Punkin.y. W. Riley 162 

Wicklow G. F. Armstrong. . . 190 

Winding Banks of Erne. ...W. Allingham 176 



.John Boyle 144 Woods, The . 



.E.Malurin. 



.164 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Accordance A. C. /.. Bo/fa . . . .219 

A HundredVears from now. J/. A. McMullin . .249 

Akeratos T. V. English 256 

Ave Imperatrix Oscar IVilde 274 

Hards of Old James Keegan. .. .248 

Htcalmed S. K. Cowan 262 

Be Patient R. C. Trench 20S 

Blindness Joseph Brenan ... .213 

Bitter Sweet M. F. Egan 242 

Books A. C. I.. Bolta 212 

Brother Bartholemew /-. /. Giiiney 271 

Buried Bells 5. A'. Co-wan 264 

Builders, The .Ji. Afulholland. 210 

Caste and Creed Francis Davis 216 

Christmas in a Lighthouse. . C. D. Shanly 261 

City Populous C.J. O'Malley 265 

Columbus .-iubrey De Vere. . .275 

Compensation D. Connolly 231 

Compensations Af.E. Blake 232 

Convent Porter Carroll Ryan 229 

Countersign, The Filz-J. O'Biien . . . .261 

Course of Empire George Berkeley. . . .215 

Crossing the Ferry Geo. Sigerson 264 

Dead Year John Savage 260 

Descant on Fame /. IV. Riley 259 

Deserted Village Goldsmith 277 

England Jas. J. Roche 260 

Fallen Star Fitz- '. O'Brien 228 

Fra Angelico Af. F. Egan 256 

Freedom and Love AT. J. Serrano 244 

Givet J' E- Bro-.vn 222 

Golden Bridge G. T. Lanigan . . . .253 

Hymn of Princes Jno. Brougham . . . .250 

Hymn to Contentment Thomas Pamcll . . .242 

I lymn to Gold R.U. Wilde 253 

If that were True Frances Brown. . . .212 

If the Wind Rise J. O'Connor. 269 

Implicit Faith A. T. De Vere 214 

In Ages Past At. F. Sullivan . . . 237 

Ina Strange Land K. E. Conimy 220 

Intactis Opulentior S. De Vere 227 

Irish Emigrants Mother. . .D. F. McCarthy. . .234 
Jasper Dean D. Connolly 266 



Judith .Joseph Farrell 242 

Last upon the Roll H. F. AlcDermotl ..z^\ 

Lay Sennon C. G. Duffy 215 

Life C.Bront/. 221 

Lily, The Afary Tighe 268 

Lost Friend J. B. O'Reilly 224 

Man of Wisdom Xahum Tale 218 

Man's Mission Lady IVilde. 217 

Man's Mortality Anonymous 276 

Maurice de Guerin Af. F. Egan 255 

Missioner, The J. K. Casey 218 

Morn .J. L. Gray 220 

Mortality At. J. Fleming . . . .277 

Mountain Laurel T. D. AlcGee 258 

Music Makers . . .A. 0' Shaughnessy .272 

My Argosy John Boyle 223 

Nearing the City by Night . Francis O'Ryan. . . . 265 

Oasis Edw'd Dotuden. . . .250 

Oblivion Joseph Brenan 238 

Olden Time Anonymous 246 

Olivia and Dick Primrose.. .Kath. Tynan 230 

O Mighty Fame Henry Flood 259 

On an Old Song IV. E. H. Leckey. .271 

On Burke Goldsmith 286 

On Garrick Goldsmith 286 

One Woman Atation Afiiir 268 

Ossian James Keegan 247 

Our Emigrants Marg't Ryan 236 

Out Kind of a Man /. W. Riley 217 

Passing Days At. A. AfcAIullin. . 22 1 

Peace and War Jno. Brougham . . .251 

Pericles and Aspasia George Croly 257 

Pleasant Days of Old Francis Brown. . . .237 

Poet, The Alaiion Atuir 269 

Poet at Court Lady Wilde 269 

Poet to his Son /. D. Eraser 270 

Poison Flower J.B. O'Rielly 267 

Poor Mother Af. A. De Vere 243 

Portrait, A R. B. Sheiidan. . . . 254 

Priceless Things J. B. O'Reilly 209 

Prison Dream Joseph Brenan 236 

Prize-Fight, The Fitz-J. OBtien . . .251 

Queen .Margaret's Feasting. ^4. T. De Vert 252 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



27 



Rainbow's Treasure 

Recompense 

Reflections 

Related Souls 

Rival Singers 



./. B. 0' /iielly . . . .110 

..T. S. Collier 230 

Ji. D. Joyce 23S 

.Lady Wilde 225 

, .L. I.Guiney 254 



River of Time T. O'Callaghan . . .246 

Ruined Chapel W. Allingham 263 

Sacrilege T. S. Collier 256 

Sad and Sweet Aubrey De Vere. . . 20g 

Sage— Poet— Saint E. G. A. Holmes. . .211 

San Salvador John Boyle 273 

Shadows of the Sunset Marion Muir 244 

Sirens, The R. C. Trench 221 

Soggarth Aroon John Banim 232 

Sonnets on Memory VVm. Alexander. . .240 

Speculum Vitoe ./. /. C. Clarke 250 

Spinner, The M. A. De Vere 220 

Struggle and Triumph W.J. McClure 239 

Sweetness A. C. L. Botta. . . .219 

Tell among the Mountains. .J. S. Xnowles . . . .258 

Thought, A AbramJ. Ryan 207 

Three Sonnets T. S. Collier 240 

Three Thoughts Sam' I. Ferguson . . 20S 



To an Urn 

To Longfellow 

To Miecenas 

Touchstone, The 

Traveller, The 

Twenty Golden Years Ago. 

Vesuvius . . . 

Virginius in the Forum 

Vision, A 

Wasted Fountains 

Well's Secret 

What Ails the World 

What hath Time Taken 

What is the Gain 

What the Sea Said 

What Two Saw 

Widow's Message to her Son, 

Will they Return 

Wind-swept Wheat 

Winters, The 

Woman of Three Cows , . . . 

Worthiness 

Year's Angels 



.T.B.Irwin 

D. E. McCarthy 

. S. De Vere 

W. Allingham. . 

Goldsmith 

, J. C. Mangan . . 
R. C. Trench . . . 
J. S. Knowles . . 

. Oscar Wilde 

.A. C. L. Botta. . 
J. B. O'Rielly . 
.Abram J. Ryan . 
.Frances Brown. . 
T. S. Collier.... 
. Joseph Farrell. . . 
.P. B. Mars ton. . 
.Ellen Forrester. . 
, Fanny Fame I I . . 
M. A. De Vere. . 
Frances Brown. . 
J. C. Mangan . . 
C. J. 0-Malley.. 
J. JI. McCarthy. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



After Ten Years Pat'k Cronin 

Angel of Poetry F. S. Mahony 

At Parting P. B. Marsion 

Beautiful Hands /. W. Riley 

Beauty, The M. O'Connor 

Ben Bolt T. D. English 

Bit of Romance Francis O'Ryan . . 

Bohemian's Ballad R. Dowliiig 

Bonnie Twinklin' Starnies. .J. McKowen 

Brier-wood Pipe C. D. Shanly 

Bright Spot in the Sky. . . .H. F. McDermott . 

Charity J. T. Campion . . . . 

Charity to Man Wm. Drcnnan. . . . 

Claddagh Boatman J- J- Dowling . . . 

Contrast R. JiT. Munkittrick. 

Cruiskeen Lawn Anonymous 

Dark Margaret J- P- Murray 

Day Dream E. Bronte 

Days when I was Young . . . A'. B. .Sheridan. . . . 

Dedication, A E. J. Armstrong. . . 

Dream, A Kath. Tynan 

Early Friendship Aubrey De Vere. . . 

Evening Solace C. Brontt' 

Eyes of an Irish Girl D. Connolly 

Forgive and Forget Fanny Forrester. . . 

Fount of Castaly J. 0' Connor 

Four-leaved Shamrock.. .. Samuel Lover 



Friends Across the Sea Ellen Forrester. . . 

From Bondage Free E. Lysaght. 

Gates of Dreams R. B. Mahany. . . . 

Good Morning J. T. Campion. . . 

Green Little Shamrock Andrew Cheriy. . . . 

I launted R. E. Munkittrick. 

Hearth Song T. C. Irwin 

In Arcady R. B. Mahany. . . . 

Indian Summer Samuel Lover 

In Meditation G. F. Armstrong . . 

Irish Music Mary Mullaly 

Irish Peasant Maiden Kath. Murphy. . . . 

Italian Myrtles D. F. McCarthy. . . 

I would not Die T. F. Meagher 

Just Asleep P. B. Marston 

Let the Toast Pass R. B. Shetidan 

Life's Young Day Gerald Giiffin 

Lonely Flower C. F. Alexander. . . 

Lucy's Attire T. C. Irwin 

Merriest Bird Gerald Griffin 

Minnie Beck John Boyle 

Missing Minnie Gilmore . . . 

Morning Dream W. Ceoghegan 

My Life is Like R. H. Wilde 

My Violon T. C. Irwin 

Nymph of Lurlieberg C. G. Halpine 

Ode to Poverty R. D. Joyce 



28 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



Oft in the Stilly Night Thomas Moore . . . 

Oh ! Say net That CAarUs Wolfe 

Old Boreen A. M. Forrtster . 

Olden Time Mary MuUaly. . . 

On Songs Thos. Demiody. . . 

On the Lake VV. J. McClure. . 

Our Noble Irish Girls J. AT. Casey 

Pleasures of Poesy T/ios. Dennody. . . 

Poet, The £J-.iui NarJin,:.. 

Prose and Song Jiio. Sterling . . . . 

Recusant, The T. D. MeGee .... 

Revised ...M.F. Sullivan. . . 

Romance Mary Mullaly . . 

Roses and the Nightingale. .P. B. Marslon . . . 

Ruby Ring C. G. Ualpine . . 

Shamrock from the Irish 

Shore D. F. McCarthy. . 

Singer, The C. F. Armstrong 

Singer's Plea Edw'il. Do^oden . . 

Singing and Sighing M. E. Blake 

Sing the Old Song Aubrey De I 'en . 

Song from the Coptic /. C. Mangan . . . 

Song of Spring S. H. Whitman 

Song of the Cilass J. F. Waller 

Songs of Home M.A. McMullin . 



Songs of I-ong Ago Ellen Forrtster . . .33b 

Spirit Company 7'. Irxviu . . 293 

Spirit of Irish Song Thos. Furlong . . . .320 

Spirit of Song . . .J. A. Shea 325 

Story of a Star O.K. Connolly . . . .2<>!i 

St. Patrick's Cross E. A. Sutton 304 

Strada Don Giovanni Carroll Kyan 2y2 

Sunlit Path John Savage ag2 

Sweet Chloe E. Lysaght 313 

Sym|>athies . . .0. K. Connolly. . . .316 

Symjjathy Mary Tighe 295 

Sympathy M. F. Sullivan . . . 296 

Theocritus. AI. F. Egan 290 

To Friendship Elizabeth Ryfes... .297 

To the L)Te •/<'/"» Boyle 331 

Voice of the WiniJ S. K, Coitum ... 320 

Wailing for the Grapes .... ll'm, Maginn . . .2g<> 

Wake me a .Song Ahram J. Kyan . .yiU 

What's that to any .Man. . . .€. J. Kiekham . . . .30<i 

Where J. F. CDonnell. . .307 

Where are the Knights O. K. Connolly. . . .305 

White Rose /. O'Connor 30S 

Winter's Victim W.J. MeClun. .312 

Wise Passiveness Edii>d Do-.rdeii. . .2i»i 

Withered Flowers H. Callanan 316 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



Amber Whale J. B. O'Rielly . . . 

Atlantic, The George Croty 

Banshee's Summons Anonymous 

By that Lake Thomas Moore. . . 

C.-esar and Cato Elizabeth Ryves . . 

Churchyard Bride Wm. Carleton 

Cormac and Mary . . .T. C. Croker 

Demon of the Gibbet Fitz-J. O'Brien. . . 

Ecdicius and I.alage /. H. McCarthy . 

Edwin of the Green Thomas Painell. . 

Enchanted Island Anonymous 

Fairies' Passage J. C. Mangan . . . 

Fairy Cavalcade George Darley. . . . 

Fairy Shoemaker W. Allingliam . . . 

Fairy Well of Lagnanay Sam'l Ferguson. . . 

Fate of the Fairy Swan! ....£. C. Donnelly. . . 
First Appearance of Helen. . Wm. Maginn. . . . 
Clarden Fairies P. B. Marston . . . 



Geraldine's Sleep /. M. O'A'yan . . 

Gods of Hellas J. //. McCarthy. 

Isle of the Blest Gerald Griffin. . . 

Lake of the Dismal Swamp. Thomas Moore. . 

Land of Rest P. W.Joyce 

Maids of Elfinmere W. Allingham.. . 

Mistletoe, The F. S. Mahony... 

Monks of Kilcrea A. G. Geoghegan 

Paradise and the Peri Thomas Moore... 

Plain of Asphodel Francis O'Kyan . 

.Satyr, The G. F. Armstrong 

Sleeper's Sail E. C. Donnelly . . 

Sleeping Beauty S. H. Whitman . 

Spirit Bridal E. Maturin 

To Imagination E. Bronte 

Treasure of Abram J. B. O'Rielly. . 

Walker of the Snow CD. Shanly . . 

Walpurgis Night John Anster. . 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



29 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Acushla Gal Machree 

Address to a Patriot 

After Aughrim 

Andromeda 

Banshee, The 

Bide Your Time 

Bunker Hill Centennial Ode. 
Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red 

Hand 

Celtic Tongue 

Celts. The 

Conquered Banner 

Cui Bono 

Cushla Machree 

Dark Rosaleen 

Dear Harp of my Country. . 

Dear Land 

Dirge of Athunree 

Dragon's Teeth 

Erin 

Erin 

Edna Regina 

Erin's Flag 

Exile, The 

Exile's Dream 

Exile's Request 

Exile to his Son 

Faithless .Shepherds 

Famine of 1880 

Farewell to America 

Felons of our Land 

Freedom 

Geraldines, The 

Green Above the Red 

Green and the Gold 

Green Flag 

Hail, Brightest Banner 

Hopeless 

How Have ye Labored 

In Exile 

Intercession 

Irelanci. Mother 

Ireland, 1882 

Irish Exiles 

Irishman, The 

Irish Minstrel 

Lament for Banba 

Lay Sermon 

Le Reveille 

Lines to Erin 

Memory of the Dead 

Men of our Island 

Men of To-day 

Minstrel Boy 



Michael Doheny. 
John Boyle ..... 
A. G. Geoghegan 
Jas. J. Roche . . . 
/no. Todhunter. 
M. J. Barry. . . . 
Geo. Sennott 



/. C. Mangan . . 
Michael Mullin . 
T. D. McGee . . . 
A brain J. Ryan. 
J.J. Murphy... 
J. P. Curran. . . 
J. C. Mangan . . 
Thomas Moore . . 

J. O'Hagan 

A. T. De Vere.. 
Fanny Pai nell . 
IVni. Drennan. . 
Kath. Tynan . . . 

D. Connolly 

Abram J. Ryan.. 

Lady Wilde 

Joseph Brenan. . . 
T. D. McGee . . . 
J. T. Gallagher . 
Lady IVilde..... 
M. F. Sullivan . 
R. H. Wilde.... 
A. M. Forrester. 
R. D. Williams. 
Thomas Davis. . . 
Thomas Davis . . 

a: D. Joyce 

O. A'. Connolly . . 
W. F. Robinson. 
J. J. Murphy. . . 
J. K. Casey .... 
Una A. Taylor.. 
A. T. De Vere. . 
Fanny Partiell. . 
J.B.O-Reilly... 
.)/. McDermott. . 

. James Orr 

, Eva M. Kelly. . . 
Fanny Pamell . . 
/. C. Mangan . . 

D. Connolly 

.Lady Wilde 

■ J. J. Callanan.. 
. /. A". Ingram. . . 

.J. A. Shea 

. Daniel C> illy. . . . 
. Thomas Moore . . 



Monks of Erin W. P. Treacy. . . . 

Music of the Future A. T. De Vere. . . 

My Grave Thomas Davis . . . 

My Native Land J. B. a Reilly . . . 

National Anthem 7'. D. Sullivan . . 

Not Dead /. F. O' Donnell. . 

O Blame not the Bard Thomas Moore . . 

Oh, Erin, Sweet Erin C. E. Noiton 

Oh. Ireland, my Country . . . Thoi. Furlong.. . . 

Old Land '.....A. T. De Vere... 

Our Course J. D. Eraser 

Our Faith— Our Fatherland./. F. ff Donnell.. 

Our Own Again Thomas Davis . . . 

Our Own Green Isle T. D. Sullivan . . 

Our Own Land IVm. Collins 

Our Record M. E. Blake 

Ourselves Alone J. O'Hagan 

Our Vow Eugene Davis. . . . 

Out of the Shadow of Death. A'. E. Conway . . . 

Penal Days Thomas Davis . . . 

People's Chief Eva M. Kelly 

Pillar Towers of Ireland. ...D. F. McCarthy. . 

Post Mortem Fanny Pamell . . . 

Prayer of Ireland James Ryan 

Queries Eugene Davis. . . 



D. F. McCarthy. 
Una A. Taylor.. 

J. K. Casey 

0. K. Connolly . . 
J. T. Gallagher. 



Remonstrance 

Ring and the Crown... 

Rosemary Crown 

Seed Time and Harvest 

Self Reliance 

Shan Van Vocht, .Anonymous . . . 

She is not Dead Fanny Pat nell 

Song of the Irish-American 

Soldier .M. A. Sad/ier. . 

Songs of our Land Frances Brown 

Sons of Hapless Erin Thos. Dermody 

Soul and Country /. C. Mangan. 

Stamping Out C. G. Halpine . . 

St. Columba and the Stork. £. C. Donnelly. 

Sun Burst T. C. Collier. . . 

Sweet Innisfallen Thomas Moore 

Three Woes A. T. De Vere 

Toast Song Daniel Ciilly. . 

To America J. A. Shea 

To Erin T. D. h'eilly . . 

To Ireland Lady Wilde. . . 

To Ireland John Boyle . . 

To the Home of my Fathers. John Hughes. . 

Up for the Green Denny Lane. . . 

Vision of Eire T. C. Inuin. . . 

Washington J- A. Shea. . . 

Wearing of the Green D. Boucicault. 

Wearing of the Green //. C. Curran . 

What Shall we Weep iax^... Fanny Pamell 
Young Enthusiast T. F. Mea-hcr 



437 
418 
403 
384 
385 
402 
.427 
395 
399 
399 
415 
400 
426 
441 
399 
425 
414 
415 
389 
421 
441 
434 
402 
391 
442 
40') 
385 
420 
420 
406 
439 
390 

448 
401 
395 

383 



440 
445 
393 
383 
389 
398 
431 
396 
446 
432 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Arthur McCoy John BoyU 

At Fredericksburg /. B. O'Mdlly . . 

Ballad of Athlone A. T. De Ver< . . . 

Blacksmith of Limerick .. .K. D. Joyce 

Border Knight Mai ion Muir. . . . 

Boyne Water A nonymous 

Brigade at Fontenoy B. Dowling. 

Cavalier's Sword Song J. Connor 

Charge by the Ford T. D. English . . . 

Charondas L. /. Guiney 

Cid's Pennon E. Malurin 

Color Bearer J- P- Brown ... 

Crossing the Blackwater. . . .R. D. Joyce 

Cuthullin's Heroes Ossian 

De Courcy's Pilgrimage ... T. D. AfcGee. ... 

Faithful Norman A. T. De I'ere. . 

F'ight at Lexington 7'. D. English . . 

Fontenoy Thomas Davis. . 

Gascon O'DriscoU Sam' I Ferguson . 

Glen of the Horse G. F. Armstrong. 

Going and Coming Af. E. Blake. . . . 

Harmosan ... A'. C. Trench . . . 

Jack the Regular T. D. English. . 

King Ailill's Death WAitley Stoics. . 

Knight's riedge Lady IVilJc 

Leap for Life D. Connolly 

Leonidas George Ctvly .... 

McMahon's Defiance J. jV. AIcKane . . 



454 Maiden City C. Elizabeth 

494 Many Nameless ■ Mary Mullaly. . . . 

451 Mine of Tortona K. D. Williams. . 

455 I Moylan at Monmouth //'///. Collins 

499 Munster War .Song R. D. Williams . . 

471 Naming of CuchuUin Sam' I Ferguson. . . 

468 No, my Lord Anonymous 

500 O'Brien of Arra Thomas Davis . . . 

497 O'Donnell Aboo M.J. McCann . . . 

489 O'Kavauagh, The /. /(. Shea 

487 Oliver's Advice Wm. Blacker 

497 Place to Die M.J. Barry 

452 Reveille M. O'Connor. 

477 Revelry of the Dying Anonymous 

459 Ride to .\rboe Wm. Collins 

454 Riding to Battle /. O'Connor 

490 Rising of the Moon J. K. Casey 

467 Rory of the Hills C. J. Kickham . 

483 Sack of Magdeburg Wm. Maginn.. . . 

501 Sergeant Molly Jas. J. Roche. . . . 

496 Shaun's Head John Savage 

486 Shemus O'Brien J. S. Le Fanu . 

492 South Munster Clans G. J/. Supple 

472 Sword of Fontenoy Jno. Brougham . . 

499 Three Knights A. M. Forrester . . 

460 Tyrrell's Pass A .G. Geoghegan. . 

486 Waiting for Washington J. I. C. Clarke . . . 

462 Wreck off Mizen Head G. /•'. .-trmstrong. 



POEMS OF LABOR. 



Hotter Day W. D. Gallagher. 510 | 

Cobbler, The // F. McDennotl. 518 | 

Forging of the Anchor. . . . Sam'l Ferguson. . . 512 

For the People Jas. J. Roche .... 509 

God Help the Poor Ellen Forrester. . . 519 

Husbandman, The John Sterling. ... 512 

In the City Geo. Sigerson 522 

In the Night-time C. J. Kickham ... 517 

Irish Reaper's Song 7". C. fr-oin ... . 514 

Potato Digger's Song T. C. Ir-.i'in 511 

Rights of Man R. D. Joyce 515 



Sledge and Pen 

Song of a Fellow -worker. 

Sons of I^bor 

Sovereign People 

Tennnt at Will 

Tintamarre 

Toilers, The 

Trumpet Smith 

Voice of Labor 

Workers, The 

Work Song 



...T. S. Clear)' 517 

...A. O' Shaughnessy 507 

...W.P.Mulehinock 5=1 

...P. S. Cassidy 510 

...T.D. Sullivan... 515 

...J.M. O'Ryan... 511. 

. . .D. Desmond 511) 

.. .C. D. Shanly 522 

. . C. G. Duffy 520 

...D. O'Connell. 521 

. . .G. F. Armstrong . 508 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Bad Luck to this Marchin'. . t.7/,ir/<-j _/. I^ver. . 53S 

Beranger's Autobiography. .F. S. Mahony. ... 551 

Canary at the Farm /. W. Riley 534 

Dermot and Nora /. F. Waller. .... 527 



Elegy on a Mad Dog Goldsmith 551 

Klegy on Mrs. Mary VX-Mie .Goldsmith 552 

Epit.-iph on F'ather Prout. . .F. S. Mahony. . . . 550 

Excellent New Song Jonathan Swift. . 544 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



.A. P. Graves... 
.A. P. Graves . . 
.A. P. Graves . . 
R. A. MilHkni. 

. Samuel Lover . . 



Fan Fitzgerl. ..... 

Father O'Flynn.. . 

Galway Mare 

Groves of Blarney . . 
How to Ask and Ha 

Imitation of Scott Win. Maginn . . . 

In Buckinham Palice C. G. Halpine. . . 

It's Little for Glory I C3.re. .Charles J. Lever. 

Kitty McClure Samuel Lover. . . 

Kitty cf Coleraine Anonymoiis 

Lanty Leary Samuel Lo7'er . . . 

Larry O'Branigan's Letters. Thomas Moore. . 

Legend of Stiffenbach K. D. Williams . 

Letter to Swift Thos. Sheiidan. . 

Litany for Doneraile P. O^ Kelly 

Logicians Refuted Goldsmith 

Lover's Complaint Anonymous . . . . 

Maid of Cloghroe Anonymous 

Malbrouck F. S. Mahony . . 

Man for Galway Charles J. Lever. 

Mary Draper Charles J. Lever. 



Medical Student's Letter . . .R. D. Williams. 

Molly Carew Samuel Lover. . . 

Monks of the Screw J- P- Curran. . . 

My Fiddle /. W. Riley . . . . 

Never Say Die R. D. Williams. 

On the Death of Dr. Swift. .Jonathan Swift. 
On Wood the Ironmonger. .Jonathan Swift. 

Orator Puff Thomas Moore . . 

Ould Plaid Shawl F. A. Fahy 

Reverie, A .R. D. Williams. 

Rory O'More Samuel Lover . . . 

Sailor's Yarn Jas. J. Roehe: . . 

Spinning Wheel Song A. P. Graves . . . 

St. Patrick and Cajsar /. C. Wilson . . . 

Three Trout a day D. Heplntm 

Threnody, A G. T. Lanigan . . 

Truth in Parenthesis C. G. Halpine. . . 

V-a-se, The Jas. J. Roche . . . 

Widow Machree Samuel Lover . . . 

Widow Malone Charles J. Lever. 

Widowology Philosophized. . C. G. Halpine. . . 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



Across the Gulf Anna T. Wilson. 

Adam Lux J. H. McCarthy . 

After the Storm L. I. Gtdney 

Among the Slain E. J. Armstrong . 

Another June K. E. Conway . . . 

At the Ship's Side Fanny Pamell . . . 

Ballade de Marguirite Oscar Wilde 

Beyond the River Chas. A. Read . . . 

Black Forty-Six A. P. Graves .... 

Bridal of Malahide Gerald Griffin .... 

Burial, The James Wills 

Burning of Kilcoleman A'. D. Joyce 

Caoch the Piper John A'eegan 

Caoine, A Eva M. Felly. . . . 

Civile Bellum CD. Shanly 

Convent Elegy M. S. McCarthy. . 

Dark Girl at the Holy Well. John A'eegan 

Dead Mother A'ath. Tynan . . . . 

Dead Summer M. E. Blake 

Death of Eily C. P. CCotior. . . . 

Death of Lily J. C. Wilson .... 

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba. ..Anonymous 

Dirge .]/./. Serrano. . . . 

Dirge Song John Anster 

Dog of the Three Days . . . .F. S. Mahony. . . . 

Dublin Bay Julia Crawford . . 

Dying Girl' R. D. Williams. . 

Dying Mother's Lament John Keegan 

Evicted D. Connolly 

Exile's Grave C. G. Halpine 



Exile's Lament T. C. Invin 

Farewell A. M. Munster . . 

Farewell, A A. O' Shaughnessy 

Fishermen of Wexford /. B. O'Reilly . '. . 

Flight to Cyprus B. Simmons ... . 

Forevermore W. L>. Gallagher. 

Fountain of Tears 4. 0' Shaughnessy 

Four Travellers Frances Brown . . . 

Game Laws John Savage 

Good Hearted A. T. De Vere. . . 

Holly and Ivy Girl John Keegan .... 

If I Had Thought Charles Wolfe 

In Grief's Unrest Attie O'Brien 

In the Long, Long Ago. . . .H. !•'. McDermott. 

Irish Cottier's Death James Orr 

Irish Emigrant's Lament. . .Lady Ditfferin . . . 

Kathleen Ban Adair Francis Davis . . . 

King Cormac's Crown A nonymous 

King of Denmark's Ride . . .C. E. Norton .... 

Knight's Remorse John Boyle 

Lady Alice W. Allingham . . . 

Lady Gormley T. D. McGee 

Last Lullaby Minnie Gilmore . . 

Last Request W. Keneally . . . 

La Via Dolorosa Lady Wilde 

Losses Frances B>own. . . 

Lost, Lost Armada '. . .T. D. McGee . . . 

Lost Steamship FitzJ. O'Biien . . 

Lost Wife J. F. Murray. . . . 

Louis Fifteenth J. Sterling 



32 


INDEX OF POEMS. 




Love Liesa-dving 


.P.B. Marston.. 


570 


She Died in Beauty CD. Silkry. . . . 


563 


Maiden, I'ray for Me.... 


.F. S.Mahony... 


569 


She is far from the I.and. . . Thomas M acre . . 


571 


Maireni Milleon 


. Geo. SigersoH ... 


617 


Side by Side T. D. Sullivan . 


569 


MargreadniChealleadh.. 


.Edward Walsh.. 


618 


Slain in the Forefront G. F. Armsttvng 


601 


MaryofClorah 


.E.J. Armstrong 


6.5 


Song of Contrast Minnie Gilmore . 


567 


Memory, A 


. K. E. Conway . . 


SbS 


Spoken in Anger Fanny Forrester. 


57« 


Missing 


.E. C. Donmlly. 


603 


They Never Tell Why Abram J. Ryan. . 


562 


Nameless One 


. J. C. Mangan... 


S08 


Three (lannets Fitz-J. O'Brien. 


585 


Nepenthe 


.R. B. Mahanv. . 


563 


Time of the Barmecides. . . . J. C. Mangan. . 


604 


Nun on the Battle Field. . 


. T. D. Sullivan . 


612 


Voice of the Poor Lady Wilde 


562 


One Summer Night 


.D. Connolly 


601 


Wail and Warning of the 




Only a Woman's Hair. . . . 


.T. C Invin. ... 


577 


Three Khalendeers J.C. Mangan. . . 


605 


Only Some Relics 


. C. G. Halpine. . . 


575 


Wailing for the Dawn E.G. A. Holmes 


610 


Orangeman's Wife 


.Carroll Malont.. 


620 


Weep not for him that DiethC. E. Norton . . . 


610 






591 
58.) 


Wexford Massacre M. J. Barry. . . 

White Ladv J.C. Mangan . 




Poor Man's Darling. ... 


..Anonymous 


573 


Presentiment 


.R.K.Munkilhic 


«• 601 


Willie's Mother Francis Davis. . 


589 


Sack of Baltimore 


.Thomas Davis.. 


580 


Wreck of the Aideen ■/./'. Gra7'es . . . 


585 


Sentenced to Death 


.Kath. Murphy.. 


595 


Younger Florus Fanny Parnell . . 


565 


Shane Dyraas' Daughter. 


.Anonymous 


616 1 






MEMOF 


UAL POEMS. 




Birthnight, The 


.M. E. Blake. . . . 


626 


Marquette Patrick Cronin . . 


646 


Bivouac of the Dead 


.Theo. ffHara... 


635 


Mitchel— 1875 D. Connolly 


629 


Burial of KingCormac... 


. Sam' I Ferguson. . 


650 


Napoleon's Grave R. H. Wilde. . . 


. 640 


Burial of Sir John Moore. 
Clarence Mangan 


.Charles Wolfe... 
.R.D. Williams. 


625 
628 


Napoleon's Tomb B Simmons . 


641 


Obsequies of David the 


Death of an Arctic Hero. 


. Wm. Alexander. 


.644 


Painter F. -S. Mahony . . 


642 


Death of King I.eury 


.Anonymous 


651 


O'Connell D. F. McCarthy . 


630 


Death of St. Columba. . . . 


.A. B. Eausselt . . 


649 


Oh, Breathe not his Name. . Thomas Moore . . 


624 


Decoration Day 


.ir. D. Kelly.... 


6.39 


Old Pioneer T/uo. O'Hara. . . 


637 


Denis Florence McCarthy 


. W. D. Kellv .... 


631 


On Raising a Monument to 




t l>irge,A 


.C. D. Shanly ... 


636 


the Irish Legion C. G. Halpine . . . 


637 


Dirge for O'SuUivan Beare 


.J.J. Callnan.. 


648 


Priest of Perth T. D. McGee. . . . 


639 


I Cod Bless the Brave 


. T. D. McGee . . . 


632 


Robert Emmet P. S. Cassidy . . 


(>33 


C;oldsmith's Grave 


/. /•'. ffDonnell 


632 


Shall the Harp then be Si- 




Grattan 


.A. r. De Vere.. 


624 


lent Thomas Moore . . 


623 


Ireland's Dead in Rome. . 


.J.F. ffDonnell. 


648 


Thomas Davis, his Life, etc. Sam' I Ferguson. . 


. 626 


Kane 


.Filz.J. ffBrien.. 


64.1 


Thomas Francis Meagher.. . T. D. Sullivan.. 


. 628 


Lament for King Ivor 


. Whitley Stokes. . 


647 


Tom Moore W. D Kelly. . . . 


. 627 


Lament for Own Roe 




To the Memory of Father 




O'Neill 


. Thomas Davis . . 


647 


Prout D.F. McCarthy. 


. 6S1 


Lament for the Princes. . . 


. J. C. Mangan.. 


62s 


Vive Valeque H. B. Carpenter. 


. 636 


Lines on the Death of Sheri- 




Wake of William Orr Wm. Drennan. . 


. 645 


dan 


. Thomas Moore . . 


624 


Wendell Phillips J. B. ffReilly . . 


. 634 


MORAL AND 


RELIGIOUS POEMS. 




Abbot of Innisfallcn 


.ir. Alliiigham.. 


7n 


Aspirations for Death Lady Wilde 


. 670 


Advent 


. li: Mcllwaine.. . 


676 


At Daybreak Fanny Pamtll . 


. 667 1 


Agnus Dei 


.J.F Waller.... 


668 


Below and Above Wm. Alexander. 


. 684 ■ 


Angel, The 


.R.D.Joyce 


671 


Beyond the Snow H. B. Carpenter. 


690 



INDEX OF POEMS. 



2>l\ 



Blest be that Strain 7'. Furlong 

Burden of the Day M. E. Jordan. . . 

Burial of Moses C. F. Alexander. . 

Child and the Elders M. E. Mannix. . . 

Christ, The G. F. Armstrong . 

Christ is Born Thomas Kelly. . . . 

Christmas /F;«. Co'wan 

Christmas Carol J. F. Waller .... 

Christmas Hymn jVahum Tate 

Come, ye Disconsolate Thomas Aloore. . . 

Convict and the Cross Anonymous 

Cross of Monterey R. E. White 

De Nativitate Domini Sedulius 

Dirge, A George Croly 

Easter R. B. Mahany. . . 

Easter Voices S. K. Cowan 

Evening Hymn M.J. A.McCafferty 

Evensong R. W. Buckley. ■ ■ 

Failure R. Mulholland . . . 

First Redbreast J/. Russell. 

F'our Mountains 4. L. J/ilJelirand. 

From Sorrow's Depths Maiy Tighe 

Garden Sep ilchre •/ . E. Hamilton . . 

Gertrude of Saxony A'. C. Trench .... 

Great Day J/. Russell. 

Harvest Hymn W. Mcllwaine. . . 

Harvest Time S'. K. Co-ivaii 

Heavenly Fatherland E. C. Donnelly. . . 

Hope of the Saint W. Melhmine. . . 

Hubert the Hunter Jas. J. Roche .... 

Hymn for Morning Thomas Parnell . . 

Hymn of a Hermit Jno. Sterling 

Indications John Boyle 

T ngratitude M. E. Jordan .... 

Inner Life E. Do-vden 

In te Christe M. F. Cusaclc 

In Trouble and in Grief R. T. Tope 

Kingdom of God R. C. Trench . . 

King Edwin R. W. Buckley. 

Legend of Easter Eggs. . . .Fitz-J. O'Brien. 

Legend of St. Dorothy )/. Russell. .... 

Life's last Hour 'Thomas Drew. . 

Light and Shade R. S. Brooke.. . 

Lorica S. Patricii /. //. Todd. . . . 

Lost Church S. H. Whitman 

Lotus and Lily K. E. Conway . ■ . 

Man's Eight Elements Whitley Stokes . . . 

Mary Magdalen J. J. Callanan. . . 

Mary Stuart's Last Prayer. .G. S. Smythe 

Meeting the Dead /. S. B. Monscll. 

Midnight Mass h\ E. White 

Morning and Evening C. E. Norton . . . 

Morning's Hinges Sam'' I Ferguson. . . 

Moses on Pisgah T. McCallagh. . . . 

My Father's House K. E. Conway . . . 

Nativity, The Wm. Blacker 

New Year David Whyte 



HACK 

..C.J. O'Af alley... 691 
. . W. R. /Hamilton . 676 

..R. C. Trench 680 

. . J. C. Mangan . . . 723 

. . W. H. Drumntond 673 

702 



Night after Harvest 

O Brooding Spirit 

O Hearts of Ours 

O Mary, Queen of Mercy 

Old Age 

On a Picture of St. Agnes. .M. E, Mannix 

On Corpus Christi M. E. Mannix . 

On the Height G. T. Lanigan. . 

On the Mountain's Top. . . . Thomas Kelly. . 

On the Riviera J. J. Murphy. . 

Out of the Depths Abram J. Ryan. 

Passing Bell James Wills. . . 

Patriarchal Time ;/'. ./. Butler. . 

Paul at Athens ■/. C. L. Botta . 

Penitent, A A. T. Wilson. . 

Penitent, The Jno. Sterling 6cj3 

Prayer, A R. Mulholland ... 675 

Prayer for Calm W. R. Hamilton 

Prayer of Doubt M. F. Sullivan . 

Prodigals, The Arthur O'Kee/e . 

Providence James Wills .... 

Psalm of Hope G. F. Armstrong 

Pure is the Dewy tiem J- J- Callanan. . 

Rainbovv of Hope John Hughes . . . 

Reverie, A /. /. Murphy. . . 

Saint Agnes //. Callanan .... 

Saint Bridgid R. Mullholland. . 

Silence ./. G. Kirchhoffer 

Sister of Charity Gerald Griffin. . . 

Sister of Charity R. D. Williams. 

Sister of Mercy Patrick Murray . 

Song of the Seraphim /F. D. Gallagher 

Song of the Mystic .Abram J. Ryan. . 

Song of Trust St. Columhkilte . . . 657 

Stabat Mater Dolorosa /. 5. B. Monsell. 664 

Stella Matutina ./. T. De Fere ... 674 

St John's Eve t). A'. Connolly. . . 715 

St. Patrick's Hymn Before Taray. C. Mangan 657 
String of the Rosary /)/. F. Egan 672 



Sursum Corda Abram J. Ryan. . 

Sursum Corda Pat'k Cronin. . . . 

Testament of St Arbogast.. . T. D. McGee . . . 
There is a Bleak Desert. . . . Thomas Moore . . 

This World is all Thomas Moore . . 

Thorns and Roses Fanny Parnell . . 

Thou art, O God Thomas Moore . . 

Tired Heart Kath. Tynan . . . 

Trial of the Gods J. B. ff Reilly . . 

Trust Eduid Harding.. 

Two-fold May PaC k Cronin ... . 

Unfound, Th Pat'k Cronin 

Unison Esmerelda Boyle , 

Vesper Hymn C. G. Halpine. . . 

Way of the World Jas. J. Roche. . . . 

We will praise Thee John li'hite .... 

When my Love is Failing. . . Isaac Ashe 

Who is the Foe W. II. Drummo' 



699 



. 682 

Y674 



PORTRAITS. 



Thomas Moore, . 
Gkrai.I) Griffin, 
Denis Florence M"^Carthy, 
Kev. Francis S. Mahony, . 
Laiiy Wilde, 
John Uoyi.e O'Reilly, 
Fanny Taknill, . 
Thomas Oshorne Dayis, 
Sir Saml-el Ferguson, . 
Charles G. Halfine, 
James Clarence Mangan, 
Key. Abram J. Ryan, 



Frontispiece. 

P.4GE 59- 

" 153^ 
■• 197- 



PART L 

POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



I said it was a willful, wayward thing, 

And so it is, — fantastic and perverse, — 

Which makes its sport of persons and of seasons, 

Taking its own way, no matter right or wrong. 

It is the bee that finds the honey out 

Where least you dream 'twould find that nectarous store 

And 'tis an arrant masker — this same Love — 

That most outlandish, freakish faces wears, 

To hide his own. Looks a proud Spaniard now; 

Now a grave Turk ; hot^Ethiopian ne.st, 

And then phlegmatic Englishman ; and then 

Gay Frenchman ; by-and-by, Italian, 

All things a song ; and in another skip. 

Gruff Dutchman ; still is Love behind the mask! 

It is a hypocrite ! looks every way 

But that where lie its thoughts ! will openly 

Frown at the thing it smiles in secret on; 

Shows most like hate, e'en when it most is Love; 

Would fain convince you it is very rock 

When it is water I ice when it is fire ! 

Is oft its own dupe, like a thorough cheat ; 

Persuades itself 'tis not the thing it is; 

Holds up its head, purses its brows and looks 

Askant, with scornful lip, hugging itself 

That it is high disdain, — till suddenly 

It falls on 'ts knees, making most piteous suit 

With hail of tears and hurricane of sighs, 

Calling oil heaven and earth for witnesses 

That it is I.ove, true Love — nothing but Love I 

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


LOVE'S LANGUAGE. 


O. the days are gone when beauty bright 


Need I say how much I love thee ? — 


My heart's chain wove ; 


Need my weak words tell. 


When my dream of Hfe, from morn till night, 


That I prize but heaven above thee. 


Was love, still love. 


Earth not half so well ? 


New hope may bloom, 


If this truth has failed to move thee. 


And days may come. 


Hope away must flee ; 


Of milder, calmer beam. 


If thou dost not feel I love thee, 


But there's nothing half so sweet in life 


Vain my words would be ! 


As love's young dream : 




No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 


Need I say how long I've sought thee .' — 


As love's young dream. 


Need my words declare, 




Dearest, that I long have thought thee 


Though the bard to purer fame ma)' soar, 


Good and wise and fair.' 


When wild youth's past; 


If no sigh this truth has brought thee. 


Though he win the wise, who frown d before. 


Woe, alas ! to me ; 


To smile at last ; 


Where thy own heart has not taught thee, 


He'll never meet 


Vain my words would be ! 


A joy so sweet, 




In all his noon of fame. 


Need I say when others wooed thee, 


As when first he sung to woman's ear 


How my breast did pine. 


His soul-felt flame. 


Lest some fond heart that pursued thee 


And, at every close, she blush'd to hear 


Dearer were than mine.' 


The one lov'd name. 


If no pity then came to thee. 




Mixed with love for me. 


No,— that hallowed form is ne'er forgot 


Vainly would my words imbue thee. 


Which first love trac'd ; 


Vain my words would be ! 


Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 




On memory's waste. 


Love's best language is unspoken. 


'Twas odor fled 


Yet how simply known ; 


As soon as shed ; 


Eloquent is every token. 


'Twas morning's winged dream ; 


Look, and touch, and tone. 


'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 


If thy heart hath not awoken. 


On life's dull stream : 


If not yet on thee 


O, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 


Love's sweet silent light hath broken. 


On life's dull stream. 


Vain my words would be ! 


THOMAS MOORE. 


DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



40 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



THE WREATH AND THE CHAIN. 
1 bring thee, love, a golden chain. 

I bring thee too a flowery wreath ; 
The gold shall never wear a stain. 

The flowrets long shall sweetly breathe. 
Come, tell me which the tie shall be. 
To bind thy gentle heart to me. 

The Chain is form'd of golden threads. 

Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, 
When the last beam of evening sheds 

Its calm and sober lustre there. 
The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove. 

With sun-lit drops of bliss among it. 
And many a rose leaf, cull'd by Love, 

To heal his lip when bees have stung it. 
Come, tell me which the tie shall be. 
To bind thy gentle heart to me. 

Yes, yes. I read that ready eye. 

Which answers when the tongue is loath. 
Thou lik'st the form of either tie, 

And spread'st thy playful hands for both. 
Ah ! — if there were not something wrong. 

The world would see them blended oft ; 
The Chain would make the Wreath so strong ! 

The Wreath would make the Chain so soft ! 
Then might the gold, the flow'rets, be 
Sweet fetters for my love and me. 



But, Fanny, so unblest they twine, 

That (heaven alone can tell the reason) 
When mingled thus they cease to shine. 

Of shine but for a transient season. 
Whether the Chain may press too much. 

Or that the Wreath is slightly braided. 
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch. 

And all their bloom, their glow is faded ! 
O. better to be always free. 
Than thus to bind my love to me. 

The timid girl now hung her head. 

And, as she turn'd an upward glance, 
I saw a doubt its twilight spread 

Across her brow's divine expanse. 
Just then, the garland's brightest rose 

Gave one of its love-breathing sighs — 
O, who can ask how Fanny chose. 

That ever look'd in Fanny's eyes? 
"The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be 
The tie to bind my soul to thee." 

THOMAS MOORE. 



THE ANXIOUS LOVER. 

! I saw a damsel in a somber room. 

j Laid low in beds of purple violet, 

I And pale, sweet roses, that perfumed the gloom ; 

And then I thought : This is a gray sunset 
Of days of loving life. Shall he who stands 

Beside her bier, in sorrow for his love. 
Be first in Heaven to clasp her gentle hands. 
To bow with her before the Lord above ? 

If love can die, let my heart be as cold 

As Galatea's was before the words 
Of the warm sculptor drew it from the mold 

And made her hear the sound of singing birds. 
Love's sunshine and love's shadows, are they all 

Like April sun and shadow on the earth ? 
If love can die at sight of funeral-pall. 

Would I had strangled •.: in its sad birth. 

I know that the sweet Spring will surely go. 
And leave no trace, e.\cept a blossom dry; 

I know that life will pass as passes snow 

When March winds blow and river-floods are 



i;ig;i; 
I know that all the maples on the hill. 

That fire the air with flame, to ashes burn ; 
I know that all the singing birds that fill 

The air with song, to silent dust will turn. 

Oh ! love, my love, can it, then, ever be 

That thou or I may gaze upwn love's death ? 
That thou shall some day, sad and silently. 

Look on me dumb and cold and without 
breath .' 
Or, shall 1 see thee lying wliite and wan. 

Like yonder damsel in the flower-bed. 
And only say : " My lady sweet has gone : 

She's lost to me ; she's dead ; w/nU nuaiteth 
dead?" 

If love can die, tlien I will no more look 

Into thy eyes, and see thy pure thoughts there. 
Nor will I read in any poet's book 

Of all the things that poets make so fair. 
If love can die, the poet's art is vain. 

And thy blue eyes might well be blossoms blue, 
And thy soft tears be only senseless rain. 

Since love can die, like flowers and soulless 
dew. 

I care not for thy smile, if love can die. 

I f I must leave thee, let me leave thee now. 
Shall I not know thee, if in Heaven high 

I enter and before the Holy bow ? 



LOVE'S ARTIFICE. 



Shalt thou not know me when before the throne 
Thou, white-robed one, shalt enter into h'ght ? 

I cannot think the Lord of Love has sown 
His precious seed to make but one day bright. 

Would I were dead, if death is then the end 

Of all the loving that makes life so fair. 
If love can die, I pray the sun may send 

Anarrow through my head, that death may tear 
Away my soul, and make me soon forget 

The fair, false hope of an eternal dawn, 
Which yet may die like purple violet 

Strewn on the robe of that sweet damsel wan. 

Ah ! love, my love, when I look in thy eyes. 

And hear thy voice, like softened village-bells. 
Coming to one who long has sent up sighs 

From foreign lands to be where his love dwells. 
My heart lifts up itself in ecstasy. 

" Life were not life if our strong love could die. 
The earth may crumble, but our love and we 

Shall live forever. This is true !" I cry. 

MAURICE F. EGAN 



TIME AND LOVE. 

Old Time is a pilgrim ; with onward course 

He journeys for months, for years ; 
But the traveler to-day must halt perforce,— 

Behold, a broad river appears. 
" Pass me over !" Time cried ; " Oh ! tarry not. 

For I count each hour with my glass ; 
Ye, whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot,— 

Young maidens, old Time come pass ! " 

Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank. 

The old man with his glass in grief ; 
Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank. 

If they'd row him across in their skiff. 
While some wanted Love to unmoor the bark. 

One wiser in thought sublime : 
■ Oft shipwrecks occur," was the maid's remark, 

'• When seeking to pass old Time !" 

From the strand the small skiff Love pushed 

He passed to the pilgrim's side, [afloat,— 

And taking old Time in his well trimmed boat. 

Dipped his oars in the flowing tide. 
Sweetly he sung as he worked at the oar. 

And this was his merry song, — 
" You see, young maidens who crowd the shore, 

How with Love Time passes along! " 



But soon the boy of his task grew tired, 
As he often had been before ; 

And faint from his toil, for mercy desired 
Father Time to take up the oar. 

In his turn grown tuneful, the pilgrim old 

With the paddles resumed the lay ; [hold 

But he changed it, and sung, "Young maids, be- 
How with Time Love passes away !" 

FRANCIS S, MAHONY. 



THE BELOVED. 

You know not of my love, and need not know ; 
■Why should you heed, if once again the snare 
Of those clear eyes and crown of comely hair 
Have brought another victim to lie low 
Before your conquering feet, that well might go 
Treading on lovers' bodies ever)'where ? 
The thing is common, and you need not care, 
Who have grown sick of loving long ago. 
But for my part, it pleases me to lie 
So in Love's chains, and dream glad hours away, 
To sing you fair all other fair above. 
Perchance I may prove wiser by-and-by, 
And weep for this my folly ; but to-day 
It pleases me to love you, and I love. 

JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 



THE ONE YOU LOVED THE BEST. 

Oh! love — love well, but only once I for n;ver 
never shall the dream 

Of youthful hope return again on life's fast roll- 
ing stream ; 

No love can match the early one which young 
affection nursed, — 

Ah ! no — the one you loved the best is she you 
loved the first. 

Once lost — that gladsome vision past — a fairer 

forir. may rise. 
And eyes whose lustre mocks the light of starry 

southern skies ; 
But vainly seek you to enshrine the charmer in 

your breast. 
For still the one you loved the first is she you 

loved the best. 

Again— 'tis gone, 'tis passed away ; those gentle 
tones and looks 

Have vanished like the feathery snow in sum- 
mer's running brooks ; 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



With weary pinions, wandering love forsakes 

the heart — his nest. 
And fain would rest attain with her whom hrst 

you loved, and best. 

Perchance some faithful one is found, when 

love's romance is o"er. 
With her you safe thro' storms may glide, to 

reach life's farthest shore ; 
But all too cold and real now you deem your 

home of rest. 
And you sigh for her you loveil the first, for her 

you loved the best. 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



LOVE'S BLISS. 

Flow on, my soul, in rills of pleasure bright ! 

Attune each chord to notes of deepest bliss ; 
My lips have tasted of the rapt delight 

That springs from Love's first kiss ! 

I seem to tread a newer, brighter land. 
To breathe a sweeter and a purer air. 

Since I have won the spotless heart and hand 
Of her to me most fair. 

I gazed into her eyes of liquid blue. 

And saw there beam the rays of holiest love ; 
Rang in my ears her promise to be true, 

Like strains from heaven above, — 

While o'er her cheeks the blushes crept and stole, 
As steals the wind through fields of waving 

Clear imaging the feelings of her soul, [grass. 
As in a polished glass. 

My .soul rejoiced the while her hand in mine 
Was prisoned close ; her eyes to mine were 
turned ; 

The incense sweet of quenchless love divine 
Within my bosom burned. 

O, Love ! pure Love ! without thee, bleak and 
bare [dole 

This life would be, with nought but grief and 
To haunt man's weary footsteps everywhere. 

And torture heart and soul ! 

O, Love, sweet Love ! what blisses now are 
mine ! [sess 

What joys erstwhile unknown my heart pos- 
Since 1 have knelt me at thy sacred shrine. 

And felt thy fond caress ! 

JAMES RYAN. 



PARTING LOVERS. 

Winding upward rose a slender vine tree. 
Winding upward round the fort of Buda. 
Ah, no vine tree was it winding upward. 
But a loving maiden round her lover ! 
Early had the twain begun tlu-ir loving. 
Loving ever since their days of childhood : 
Now they had to say farewell forever. 

To the maiden thus the stripling murmured : 
" Three broad rivers, maiden, run before thee. 
Nigh the third a garden green is growing ; 
In the garden blooms a tree of ro.ses; 
From that rose-tree pluck a rose, O maiden, 
Lay it near thy heart, within thy bosom : 
Faster than the rose leaves fade within it. 
Faster fades my heart for thee, beloved !' 

To the stripling thus the maiden answered : 
" Three high mountains, youth, arise before thee. 
From the third there flows a quiet fountain ; 
Nigh the fountain lies a rock of marble ; 
On the marble stands a silver chalice ; 
In the silver chalice lies a snowflake. 
Bear away the snowflake from the beaker. 
Lay it near thy heart, upon thy bosom : 
Faster than the flake of snow dissolveth. 
Faster melts my heart for thee, beloved !" 

—From tie ticrvian. 

WHITLEY STOKES. 



LOVE'S REMONSTRANCE, 

Dear Tom, my brave, free-hearted lad. 

Where'er you go, God bless you ! 
You'd better speak than wish you had. 

If love for me distress you. 
To me, they say, your thoughts incline. 

And possibly they may so ; 
Then, once for all, to quiet mine, 

Tom, if you love me, say so. 

On that stout heart and manly frame 

Sits lightly sport or labor. 
Good-humored, frank, and still the same 

To parent, friend, or neighbor. 
Then why postpone your love to own 

For me, from day to day so ? 
And let me whisper, still alone, 

" Tom, if you love me, say so," 



HITHER, O LO VE. 



43 



How oft when I was sick or sad 

With some remembered folly, 
The sight of you has made me glad. 

And then most melancholy ! 
Ah ! why will thoughts of one so good. 

Upon my spirits prey so ? 
By you it should be understood — 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

Last Monday, at the cricket-match. 

No rival stood before you ; 
In harvest time, for quick despatch 

The farmers all adore you ; 
And evermore your praise they sing. 

Though one thing you delay sn ; 
And I sleep nightly murmuring. 

" Tom, if you love me, say so !" 

Whate'er of ours you chance to seek. 

Almost before you breathe it, 
I bring, with blushes on my cheek, 

And all my soul goes with it. 
Why thank me, then, with voice so low. 

And faltering turn away so } 
When next you come, before you go, 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

When Jasper Wild, beside the brook. 

Resentful round us lowered, 
I oft recall that lion-look 

That quelled the savage coward. 
Bold words, and free you uttered then : — 

Would they could find their way so. 
When these moist eyes so plainly mean, 

" Tom, if you love me, say so !" 

My friends, 'tis true, are well to do. 

And yours are poor and friendless ; 
Ah, no ! for they are rich in you, — 

Their happiness is endless. 
You never let them shed a tear, 

Save that on you they weigh so ; 
There's one might bring you better cheer,— 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

My uncle's legacy is all 

For you, Tom, when you choose it ; 
In better hands it cannot fall. 

Or better trained to use it. 
I'll wait for years, but let me not 

Nor wooed nor plighted stay so ; 
Since wealth and worth make even lot, — 

Tom, if you love me, say so ! 

JAMES KENNY. 



OH ! WERE MY LOVE. 

Oh ! were my Love a country lass, 

That I might see her every day ; 
And sit with her on hedgerow grass 

Beneath a bough of May ; 
And find her cattle when astray, 

Or help to drive them to the field, 
And linger on our homeward way. 

And vvoo her lips to yield 
A twilight kiss before we parted, 
Full of love, yet easy-hearted. 

Oh ! were my Love a cottage maid. 

To spin through many a winter night. 
Where ingle-corner lends its shade 

From fir-wood blazing bright. 
Beside her wheel what dear delight 

To watch the blushes go and come 
With tender words, that took no fright 

Beneath the friendly hum ; 
Or rising smile, or tear-drop swelling. 
At a fireside legend's telling. 

Oh ! were my Love a peasant girl 

That never saw the wicked town ; 
Was never dight with silk or pearl. 

But graced a homely gown. 
How less than weak were fashion's down 

To vex our unambitious lot ; 
How rich were love and peace to crown 

Our green secluded cot ; 
Where age would come serene and shining, 
Like an autumn day's declining. 

WILLIAM ALUNGHAM. 



HITHER, LOVE! 

Hither, O Love ! Come hither 

On pinions of young delight. 
Ere the bloom of the morning wiiher. 

While the dew lies bright ; 
The meadows their balm are breathing. 

Day bends o'er the limpid lake. 
All nature her beauties wreathing 

For thy sweet sake ! 

O, joy is the mate of morning. 
And love is the child of light. 

And youth is the time for scorning 
The bonds of night ! 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Then come — while the world lies jaded. 
The elves of the woodland wake. 

And dawn keeps her fields unfaded 
For thy sweet sake I 

JOHN TODHUNTER 



^^ 



WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? 



FLORENCE MACCARTHY'S FAREWELL TO 
HIS ENGLISH LOVE. 

My pensive-browed Evangeline ! 
What says to thee old Windsors pine, 

Whose shadow oer thy pleasance sways? 
It says, " Ere long the evening star 
Will pierce my darkness from afar : 

I grieve as one with grief who plays." 

Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 

In that far distant land of mine 

There stands a yew-tree among tombs ! 
For ages there that tree has stood, 
A black pall dash'd with drops of blood ; 

O'er all my world it breathes its glooms. 

England's fair child, Evangeline ! 
Because my yew-tree is not thine. 

Because thy gods on mine wage war. 
Farewell ! Back fall the gates of brass ; 
The exile to his own must pass : 

I seek the land of tombs once more. 

Al'BRF.V T. DE VERE. 



Ob, name it not, for though guilt and shame 
Were on thy name. 

Id still be true; 
But that heart of thine, should another share it. 
I could not bear it — 

What would I do } 

What would you do, love, when home returning. 
With hopes high burning. 

With wealth for you — 
If my bark, that bounded o'er foreign foam. 
Should be lost near home — 

Ah, what would you do? 
So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow. 
In want and sorrow, 

That left me you ; 
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow. 
My heart thy pillow !— 

That's what I'd do. 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



What will you do. love, when I am going. 
With white sail flowing. 
To seas beyond ? 
What will you do, love, when waves divide us. 
And friends may chide us. 
For being fond ? 
Tho' waves divide us. and friends be chiding. 
In faith abiding. 

I'll still be true. 
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean. 
In deep devotion — 

That's what I'll do! 

What would you do, love, if distant tidings. 
Thy fond confidings 

Should undermine ; 
And I abiding 'neath sultry skies. 

Should think other eyes 

Were as bright as thine ? 



A DECADE OF LOVE. 

An angel came down with a golden lyre. 

And the strings of the lyre were ten. 
And the sound of its notes, played one by one. 

Trembled and interwined; 
And he passed away ere the playing was done. 

But the harmony dwelt on the wind. 
Like the mingling of all the celestial choir - 

And the echoes it waked were ten. 

I A spirit came beanng a chalice of tears, 
I And the sighs that he breathed were ten. 
I And the tears from the chalice dropped one by 
I On my bride's fair face and mine; [one 

But above us was glowing Love's glorious sun. 

Whose rays are a joy divine 
That shines serene through the passing years - 
And the drops that it dried were ten. 

A nymph came laughing o'er fields of June, 
I And the roses she bore were ten, 
' And they dropped from her fingers, one by one. 
, Kissing our brows as they fell, [run, 

I While her laughter rang clear as the steamlets 
Or the tones of our marriage bell, 

Till out hearts beat time to the lightsome tune. 
I And the perfumes she breathed were ten. 

Oh, decade of love to my mar\'elling soul ! 

Can the years 'oe truly ten 
That have flown like a rhapsody, one by one. 

O'er me and my darling bride? 



THE VISION OF LOVE. 



45 



Was it yesterday morn that her heart was won ? 

Oh, years that in moments ^lide ! 
Still rapt into ecstasy may ye roll 

Though time counts slowly ten. 

JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 



LOVE SONG. 



Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty 

slumbers, 

Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through 

her hair ! 

Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers 

Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air ! 

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 
To wind round the willow banks that lure 
him from above ; 

Oh that, in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, 
L too, could glide to the bower of my love I 

Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have 

wound her. 

Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay. 

List'ning, like the dove, while the fountains 

echo round her. 

To her lost mate's call in the forests far away ! 

Come, then, my bird ! for tlie peace thou ever 

bearest. 

Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me — 

Come ! this fond bosom, my faith fulest, my fairest. 

Bleeds with its death-wound, but deeper yet 

for thee ! 

CHORCE DARLEV. 



THE VISION OF LOVE. 

Oh, daring Muse, wilt thou indeed essay 

To paint the wonders which that lamp could 

show ? 
And canst thou hope in living words to say 
The dazzling glories of that heavenly view ? 
Ah, well I ween, that if with pencil true 
That splendid vision could be well express 'd. 
The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew 
Would seize with rapture ^every wondering 

breast, 
■When love's all-potent charms divinely stuo;l 

conf:;s3'd. 



All imperceptible to human touch, 
His wings display celestial essence light. 
The clear effulgence of the blaze is such. 
The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright. 
That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight ; 
A youth he seems, in manhood's freshest years ; 
Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight. 
Each golden curl resplendently appears. 
Or shades his darker brow, which grace majes- 
tic wears. 

Or o'er his guileless front the ringlets bright 
Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw. 
That front than polished ivory more white. 
His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow 
Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow ; 
While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews 
(Those lips divine, that even in silence know 
The heart to touch), persuasion to infuse. 
Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. 

The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep 
Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway. 
But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep 
Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray. 
Which o'er his features exquisitely play. 
And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light. 
Thus thro' some narrow space the azure day. 
Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright. 
Wide darts its lucid beams to gild the brow of 
night. 

His fatal arrows and celestial bow 
Beside the couch were negligently thrown. 
Nor needs the god his dazzling arms to show 
His glorious birth ; such beauty round him shone 
As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone. 
The bloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire. 
Could well proclaim him. Beauty's cherish'd son ; 
And Beauty's self will oft those charms admire. 
And still reveal his witching smile, his glance's 
living fire. 

Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost. 
Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; 
Her limbs immovable, her senses toss'd 
Between amazement, fear and ecstacy, 
She hangs enamor'd o'er the deity : 
Till from her trembling hand extinguish 'd falls 
The fatal lamp — he starts — and suddenly 
Tremendous thunders echo thro' the halls, 
While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the 
affrighted walls. 

MARY TIGHE. 
—From "Psyclte, or the Lfgcnd of Love." 



46 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



A DREAM. 

I dreamed I went to seek for her whose sight 
Is sunshine to my soul ; and in my dream 
I found her not ; then sank the latest beam 
Of day in the rich west ; upswam the Night 
With sliding dews, and still I searched in vain, 
Thro' thickest glooms of garden-alleys quaint. 
On moonlit lawns, by glimmering lakes where faint 
The ripples brake and died, and brake again. 
Then said I, "At God's inner court of light 
I will beg for her;" straightway toward the 

same 
I went, and lo ! upon the altar-stair 
She knelt with face uplifted, and soft hair 
Fallen upon shoulders purely gowned in white. 
And on her parted lips I read my name. 

EDWARD DOWDF.X. 



CORINNE'S LAST LOVE SONG. 

How beautiful, how beautiful you streamed 
up)on my sight. 

In glory and in grandeur, as a gorgeous sunset- 
light ! 

How softly, soul-subduing, fell your words 
upon mine ear. 

Like low aerial music when some angel hovers 
near! 

What tremulous, faint ecstacy lo clasp yo-.ir 
hand in mine, 

Till the darkness fell upon me of a glory too 
divine ! 

The air around grew languid with our inter- 
mingled breath. 

And in your beauty's shadow I sank motionless 
as death. 

I saw you not, I heard not, for a mist was on 
my brain — 

I only felt that life could give no joy like that again. 

And this was Love — I knew it not, but blindly 
floated on. 

And now I'm on the ocean waste, dark, deso- 
late, alone ; 

The waves are raging round me — I'm reckless 
where they guide ; 

No hope is left to light me, no strength to stem 
the tide. 

As a leaf along the torrent, a cloud across the sky. 

As dust upon the whirlwind, so my life is drift- 
ing by. 



The dream that drank the meteor's light -the 

form from Heav'n has flown — 
The vision and the glory, they are passing — 

they are gone. 
Oh ! love is frantic agony, and life one throb of 

pain; 
Yet I would bear its darkest woes to dream 

that dream again. 

LADY wii.nE. 



IRISH LOVE SONG. 

Breathe gently, ye breezes, across the high 
meadow. 
Fall softly, ye shadows, dark robes of the night. 
Unfold all your petals, wild mint and blue pansy. 
Exhale all your odors. O, brook-lily bright :— 
For she comes when the deep Sabbath stillness 
of evening [west — 

Steals out from the darkening woods in the 
When the glen-throstle sings 'mid the chestnut's 
dim branches. 
And the twilight mist glides o'er the blue 
lakelet's breast. 

I'll weave this bright garland now here in the 
shadow. 
And think of her glances and greeting the while. 
Till I hear the green wicket swing round on its 
hinges. 
And the light little foot on the steps of the stile : 
She comes ! that's her voice from the low wood- 
land pathway ; [brake ; 
The sweet-brier fragrance floats up from the 
She comes ! and auroral light swims round and 
round her. 
And fairy-like music her light footfalls make. 

I see her glide out from the sycamore's shadow — 
The white moon shines full on her beautiful 
face ; [glowing ; 

On her cheek the soft flush of the May-dawn is 
And what nymph ever tripped with so dainty 
a pace.' 
O, tender-souled darling, come— quicker, como 
quicker — 
I'll crown with this rose wreath my heart's 
summer queen ; 
What are all the rich dow'rs of earth's opulent 
kingdoms 
To the joy of now kissing my blue-eyed 
Kathleen ! 

JOHN LOCKE. 



SUPREME SUMMER. 



47 



AN IRISH MAIDEN'S LOVE. 
My love he has a soft blue eye, 

With silken lashes drooping ; 
Its glances are like angels' smiles, 

From heaven's gates down-stooping; — 
As bright as beams of Paradise, 

As joyous and serene, 
And when they shine upon me 

I am jeweled like a queen. 

My love he has the fondest heart 

That maiden e'er took pride in ; 
'Twas nurtured in the fair green land 

His fathers lived and died in. 
He holds us dear — that native land. 

And me, his dark colleen, 
And just because he loves me 

I am happy as a queen. 

My love he wraps me all around 

With his true heart's devotion ; 
With wealth more rare than India's gold, 

Or all the gems of ocean ; 
He clothes me with his tenderness. 

The deepest ever seen. 
And while I wear such costly robes 

I'm richer than a queen. 

Oh ! kindly does he soothe me when 

My heart is faint and low ; 
My joy is his delight, and all 

My griefs are his, I know. 
In the spring-time he is coming. 

And I count the days between. 
For, with such a royal king to rule. 

Who would not be a queen,' 

MARY E. MANNIX. 



THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 
Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! [Lee, 
There's not in the land a lovelier tide, [bride. 
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my 

She's modest and meek. 

There's a down on her cheek, 

And her chin is as sleek 

As a butterfly's wing, 

Then her step would scarce show 

On the new-fallen snow; 

And her whisper is low. 

But as clear as the spring. 



Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! [Lee : 
I know not how love is happy elsewhere, 
I know not how any but lovers are there. 

Oh! so green is the grass, so clear is the 

stream. 
So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam. 
That beauty should never to other lands 

roam. 
But make on the banks of the river its home. 
When dripping with dew. 
The roses peep through, 
'Tis to look in at you 

They are growing so fast; 
While the scent of the flowers 
Must be hoarded for hours, 
'Tis poured in such showers 
When my Mary goes past. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 

Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me ! — 
Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me. 
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee! 

THOMAS DAVIS, 



SUPREME SUMMER. 

O heart full of song in the sweet song weather, 
A voice fills each bovver, a wing shakes each tree. 

Come forth, O winged singer, on song's fairest 
feather. 
And make a sweet fame of my love and of me. 

The blithe world shall ever have fair loving 
leisure. 
And long is the summer for bird and for bee ; 
But too short the summer and too keen the 
pleasure 
Of me kissing her and of her kissing me. 

Songs shall not cease of the hills and the 
heather ; 
Songs shall not fail of the land and the sea ; 
But, O heart, if you sing not while we are to- 
gether. 
What man shall remember my love or me .' 

Some million of summers hath been and not 
known her. 
Hath known and forgotten loves less fair 
than she ; 
But one summer knew her, and grew glad to 
own her. 
And made her its flower, and gave her to me. 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And slie and I, loving, on earth seem to sever j I shall die when the rose-tree about and above me 
Some part of the great blue from heaven Her red-kissing mouth seems hath kissed 
each day— | summer through ; 

I know that the heaven and the earth are forever, I shall die on the day that she ceases to love me— 
But that which we take shall with us pass away. But that will not be till the day she dies too. 



And that which she gives me shall be for no lover 
In any new love-time, the world's lasting while ; 

The world, when it loses, shall never recover 
The gold of her hair nor the sun of her smile. 

A tree grows in heaven, where no season 
blanches 
Or stays the new fruit through the long 
golden clime ; 
My love reaches up, takes a fruit from its 
branches. 
And gives it to me to be mine for all time. 

What care I for other fruits, fed with new fire, 
Plucked down by new lovers in fair future line ; 

The fruit that I have is the thing I desire. 
To live of and die of- the fruit she makes mine. 

And she and I, loving, are king of one summer 
And queen of one summer to gather and glean : 

The world is for us what no fair future comer 
Shall find it or dream it could ever have been. 

The earth, as we lie on its bosom, seems pressing 

A heart up to bear us and mix with our heart ; 

The blue, as we wander, drops down a great 

blessing 

That soothes us and fills us and makes the 

tears start. 

The summer is full of strange hundredth-year 
flowers. 
That breathe all their lives the warm air of 
our love. 
And never shall know a love other than ours 
Till once more some phenix-star flowers above. 

The silver cloud passing is friend of our loving ; 

The sea, never knowing this year from last year. 
Is thick with fair words, between warring and 
soughing. 

For her and me only to gather and hear. 

Yea, the life that we lead now is better and 
sweeter, 
I think, than shall be in the world by and bye ; 
For those days, be they longer or fewer or 
sweeter, 
I will not exchange on the day that 1 die. 



Then, fall on us, dead leaves of our dear love- 
roses, 

And, ruins of summer, fall on us ere long. 
And hide us away where our dead year reposes ; 

Let all that we leave in the world be — a song. 

And, O song that I sing now while we are to- 
gether. 

Go sing to some new year of women and men. 
How I and she loved in the long loving weather. 

And ask if they love on as we two loved then. 

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 



NOT FOR RANK OR GOLD. 

I LOVE thee not for rank or gold. 

For land or social fashion : 
I have lived too long with the gallant and bold. 
I have learned too much from the great of old. 

To coin a true man's passion. 

I love thee not for thy wavy hair, 

Which falls in shadowy showers; 

Not for the form, so debonair ; 

Not for the footstep, light as air. 

Or the step of spring over flowers. 

I love thee not for the loving eye. 

So full of earnest beaming. 
Which has caught its hue from the deep blue sky. 
When the feathery clouds in slumber lie, 

And Nature's soul is dreaming. 

I love thee not for the noble brow. 

Where the shadow of thought reposes ; 
Not for the bosom, like sifted snow ; 
Nor the cheek where rival tlow'rets glow — 

The lilies beside the roses. 

I love thee not for the gentle lays 

Which thrill my bosom thorough.— 
The faint, sweet echoes of olden days, 
Ere life had proved a troubled maze 
Of endless hope and sorrow. 

I love thee for the trace of care 

Which on thy forehead hovers. 

Like a shadow from thy clustering hair ; 

For the mystic sorrow sleeping there. 
No eye but mine discovers. 



LOST— FOUND. 



49 



And (or the ghost of by-gone fears 

Which is floating still above thee ; 

For the secret sorrows and silent tears ; 

For the mystery of thy early years, — 
I love thee, dear, I love thee. 



JOSEPH BRENAN. 



THINE EYES OF BLUE. 

Thine eyes of blue, the heaven's own hue. 
Thy soft eyes thrill my fevered pulse ; 

The light that lies within thine eyes 
Hath blinded me to all things else. 
Thine eyes of blue, etc. 

Love at a single word may bloom. 

The quick heart blossoming fair and free ; 
One glance may gild the futures gloom. 

And now thy bright eyes shine on me. 
Thine eyes of blue, etc. 

And canst thou ask me why my cheek. 
Where thou art not, grows pale and wan ? 

Why sadness that I can not speak 
Surrounds my path when thou art gone.? 
Thine eyes of blue, etc. 

And, farther, canst thou wish to know 
What change comes o'er me when we meet. 

And why my pallid brow will glow, 
And why my quivering pulses beat ? 
Thine eyes of blue, etc. 

—From the Frenck. 

CHARLES G. H ALPINE. 



THE IVORY GATE. 

Beautiful, burning eyes, that I have prayed to 
forget. 

Why do you trouble my dreams ? Why do you 
haunt me yet ? 

Lit, as of old, by love that shone in the van- 
ished years 

Through a mist, that else vi'ere hidden — a lustre 
of happy tears. 



Bright as of old with laughter that rippled o'er 
every look. 

As the wayward sunbeams ripple o'er a danc- 
ing woodland brook. 

Deep — dark — dreamy eyes, that I have prayed 
to forget. 

Why do you break my slumber ? Why do you 
haunt me yet ? 

Rapt as of old from earth, again you try to 
forecast 

The joys of a happy future — now only a shat- 
tered past. 

Sweet eyes, I scarcely marvel that you should 

pursue me yet, 
For the soul in dreams remembers what it has 

prayed to forget — 
Its wreathed flowers of joyaunce, when it 

should be garbed in care — 
Forgets what it should remember, and hopes 

when it should despair. 

'Tis vain, bright eyes, I cannot— I know not 

how to forget ; 
Love laughs at the lapse of ages ; I love you, I 

love you yet. 
Oh ! come to me in my visions ; I will bear for 

the brief delight 
The cold, gray dawn that glimmers after the 

dreams of night. 

EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 



LOST -FOUND. 



I wandered from my mother's side 
In the fragrant path of morn ; 
Naked, weary and forlorn 

I fainted in the hot noon-tide. 

For I had met a maiden wild. 

Singing of love and love's delight ; 

And with her song she me beguiled, 
And her soft arms and bosom white. 



Lovely and laughing eyes, that I have prayed to 

forget. 
Why do you vex my visions.' Why do you 

haunt me yet.? 



I followed fast, I followed far. 

And ever her song flowed blithe and free 
'• Where love's own flowery meadows are, 

There shall our golden dwelling be !" 



POEMS- OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



I followed far, I followed fast. 

And oft she paused and cried, " O here !" 
liut where 1 came no flower would last. 

And joy lay cold upon his bier. 
1 wandered on, I wandered wide. 

Alas! she fleeted with the morn ! 

Weary, weeping and forlorn. 
She left me in the fierce noon-tide. 



Naked, bleeding and forlorn, 

I wandered on the mountain side ; 
To hide my wounds from shame and scorn, 

I made a garment of my pride. 
Till there came a tyrant gray ; 

He stript and chained me with disgrace; 
He led me to the public way. 

And sold me in the market-place. 
To many masters was 1 bound. 

And many a grievous load I bore , 
But in the toil my flesh grew sound. 

And from my limbs the chains 1 tore. 
I ran to seek my mother's cot. 

And I found Love singing there. 
And round it many a pleasant plot. 

And shadowy streams and gardens fair. 
Like virgin gold the thatch 1 see : 

Like virgin gold the doorway sweet ; 
And in the blissful noon each tree 

A ladder for the angels' feet. 

■JOHN TODHUNTER. 



PARTED. 

Fair scenes in our remembrance dwell 

When we have wandered far away. 
Soft strains through memor)-'s caverns swell 

Though every chord hath ceased to play ; 
So from my heart thy voice— thy face 

Time shall not steal nor distance sever. 
Though from my path thine every trace 

Hath passed away for ever. 

When some bright dream of vanished hours 

Is in thy heart ui)-springing. 
When some loved song through fancy's bow'rs 

In faded tones is singing. 
When some faint chord long hushed and mute 

'Neath memory's touch doth quiver — 
Then think of one whose wayward foot 

Hath passed away forever. 

EDWARD HARDING. 



HEARTS AND FLOWERS. 

Is Love like the sunbeam 

That gleams through a shower. 
And kisses off gently 

The dews from the flower ; 
That cheers up the blossoms 

And bids them be gay. 
And lends them the fragrance 

That perfumes the day ? 
Yes ! Love is the sunbeam 

That garlands the bowers. 
And hearts that are freshest. 

Life's blossoming flowers. 

Is Love like the zephyr 

Of calm summer eves. 
That whispers soft music 

Through half-opened leaves ; 
That steals from the flow rets 

The sweets they are given. 
And bears on his pinions 

Their odors to heaven .' 
Yes ! Love is the zephyr 

Of calm sunny hours. 
That wafts through the valleys 

The breath of the flowers. 

Is Love like the tempest 

That wantonly shakes 
The buds from the stem 

That he crushes and breaks . 
That frights with his terrors 

The bloom from the rose. 
And scatters all beauties 

The gardens disclose .•' 
No ! Love is no tyrant 

That frowningly lowers ; 
He wooes like the zephyr 

Where Hearts are the flowers. 

JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 



A MAY CAROL. 
I shall see her to-day I 

No wonder the skies are blue. 
No wonder the world in its best array 

Flaunts as tho' fashioned anew • 
No wonder the world is at play, at olay. 

In green, and purple, and gola. 
For I shall see her to-day, to-day. 

Who is all my joy to behold. 



KA TE OF ARRAGLEN. 



51 



I shall see her to-day ! 

I woke with the joyful words, 
And the blue sky laughed upon where I lay 

With the twitter of leaves and birds ; | May, 
And the soft winds brought me the scents of 

And the sun sent goldenest light 
To say, I shall see her to-day, to-day. 

Who had filled my dreams all night. 

The village will hold its festival. 

And the joybells joyously chime : 
My darling is coming, my all, my all. 

The joy of the joyful time. [fly, 

And the children will dance, and tlie flags will 

And all hearts with the music stir, 
And the birds, the winds and the flowers and 1 

Will have all our joys in her. 

The earliest roses peep. 

For they know she will surely come. 
And the lilac thicket, so sweet and deep. 

Puffs down on her, fume on fume, 
And the bluebells and lilies will all look up 

As she comes by the greenwood way. 
Where primrose and violet linger in hope 

To see her, to see her to-day 

I shall see her to-day ! 

I dream of her night by night ; 
No wonder my blood makes holiday. 

And goes half mad with delight ; 
No wonder the sunshine fills the air. 

And the whole wide world is gay ; 
For my love, my love, O so fair, so fair, 

I shall see her to-day ! 

WJLLIA.M WILKINS 



KATE OF ARRAGLEN. 
When first I saw thee, Kate, 
That summer ev'ning late, 
Down at the orchard gate 

Of Arraglen, 
I felt I'd ne'er before 
Seen one so fair, asthore. 
And fear'd I'd nevermore 

See thee again. 

I stopped and gazed at thee ; 
My footfall luckily 
Reach'd not thy ear. though we 
Stood there so near ; 



While from thy lips a strain. 
Soft as the summer rain. 
Sad as a lover's pain. 

Fell on my ear, 

I've heard the lark in June, 
The harp's wild plaintive tune. 
The thrush, that aye too soon 

Gives o'er his strain,- 
I've heard in hush'd delight 
The mellow horn at night. 
Waking the echoes light 

Of wild Loch Lene ; 

But neither echoing horn. 
Nor thru.sh upon the thorn. 
Nor lark at early morn. 

Hymning in air. 
Nor harper's lay divine. 
E'er witch'd this heart of mine. 
Like that sweet voice of thine. 
That ev'ning there. 

And when some rustling, dear. 

Fell on thy listening ear. 

You thought your brother near. 

And named his name ; 
I could not answer, though. 
As luck would have it so. 
His name and mine, you know. 

Were both the same. 

Hearing no answering sound. 
You glanced in doubt around. 
With timid look, and found 

It was not he ; 
Turning away your head. 
And blushing rosy red. 
Like a wild fawn you fic.-d 

Far, far from niu. 

The swan upon the lake. 
The wild rose in the brake. 
The golden clouds that make 

The west their throno; 
The wild ash by the stream, 
The full moon's silver beam. 
The evening star's soft gleam. 

Shining above ; 

The lily robed in white, — 
All, all are fair and bright. 
But ne'er on earth was sight 
So bright, so fair. 



52 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



As that one glimpse of thee 
That I caught then, machree ; 
It stole my heart from me 

That ev'ning there. 

And now you're mine alone, 
That heart is all my own- 
That heart that ne'er hath known 

A flame before ; 
That form of mold divine, 
That snowy hand of thine, 
Those, locks of gold, are mine 

For evermore. 

Was lover ever seen 

As blest as thine, Kathleen? 

Hath lover ever been 

More fond, more true ? 
Thine is my every vow ! 
For ever, dear, as now, 
Queen of my heart be thou. 

Mo cailin ruadh!* 

DENNY LANE. 



KATE OF KENMARE. 

O .' many bright eyes full of goodness and glad- 
ness. 
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart 
loves to shine, 
Ahd many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sad- 
ness. 
Have I worshipped in silence and felt them 
divine ! 
J5ut hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings. 

Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair 
As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the 
Roughty, 
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken- 
mare ! 

It was all but a moment, her radiant existence. 

Her presence, her absence, all crowded on mc; 
But time has not ages, and earth has not dis- 
tance 

To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee ! 
Again am I straying where children are playing— 

Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air. 
Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee. 

Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Ken- 
mare ! 



•My golden-haired girl. 



Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster 
Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; 
But, O ! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre. 
No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear ! 
To that cheek softly flushing, to thy lip brightly 
blushing, 
O ! what arc the berries that bright tree doth 
bear? 
Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, 
That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken- 
mare ! 

O! beauty, some spell from kind Nature thou 
bearest. 
Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye. 
That hearts that are hardest, from forms that 
are fairest. 
Receive such impressions as never can die ! 
The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy. 
Can stamp on the hard rock the shape it doth 
wear. 
Art cannot trace it nor ages efface it— 

And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of 
Kenmare ! 

To him who far travels how sad is the feeling- 
How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed 
and dim. 
When the scenes he most loves, like the river's 
soft stealing. 
All fade as a vision and vanish from him ! 
Yet he bears from each far land a flower for 
that garland. 
That memory weaves of the bright and the 
fair; 
While this sigh I am breathing my garland is 
wreathing. 
And the rose of that garland is Kate of Ken- 
mare ! 

In lonely Lough Ouinlan in summers soft hours. 
Fair islands are floating that move with the 
tide. 
Which, sterile at first, are soon covered wiih 
flowers, 
And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like 
glide ! 
Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly 
awakened. 
And the heart bears a harvest that late was 
so bare. 
Of him who in roving finds objects in loving. 
Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of 
Kenmare ! 



KATEY'S LETTER. 



53 



Sweet Kate of Kenmare. though I ne'er may 
behold thee— 
Though the pride and the jov of another you 
be- 
Though strange lips may praise thee and strange 
arms enfold thee— 
A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on 
thee! 
One feeling I cherish that never can perish— 

One talisman proof to the dark wizard, care — 
The fervent and dutiful love of the beautiful. 
Of which thou art the type, gentle Kate of 
Kenmare ! 

DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 



KATE OF GARNAVILLA. 

Have you been at Garnavilla? 
Have you seen at Garnavilla 
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla ? 

Oh ! she's pure as virgin snows 
Ere they light on woodland hill ;— ah, 

Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose 
Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 

Philomel, I've listened oft 

To thy lay, nigh weeping willow , 
Oh, the strain, more sweet, more soft. 

That flows from Kate of Garnavilla ! 
Have you been at Garnavilla ? 
Have you seen at Garnavilla 
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla ? 

As a noble ship I've seen 

Sailing o'er the swelling billow. 
So I've marked the graceful mien 

Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 
Have you been at Garnavilla ? 
Have you seen at Garnavilla 
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain 
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? 

If poet's prayers can banish cares. 
No cares shall come to Garnavilla ; 

Joy's bright rays shall gild her days, 

And dove-like peace perch on her pillow, 

Charming maid of Garnavilla ! 

Lovely maid of Garnavilla ! 

Beauty, grace and virtue wait 

On lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! 

EDWARD LYSAGHT. 



KATE KEARNEY. 



O, did you not hear of Kate Kearney .' 
She lives on the banks of Killarney ; [and fly, 
From the glance of her eye shun danger. 
For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. 
For that eye is so modestly beaming. 
You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming : 
Yet oh, who can tell how fatal's the spell 
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney ! 

O, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney, 
Who lives on the banks of Killarney, 
Beware of her smile, for many a wile 
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney. 
Though she looks so bewitchingly simple, 
There's mischief in every dimple ; 
And who dares inhale her mouth's spicy gale 
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney. 

LADY MORGAN. 



KATEY'S LETTER. 

Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my 

love a letter ? 
And although he cannot read, sure I thought 

'twas all the better ; 
For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling 

in the matter. 
When the tnatii/tg was so plain that I loved 

him faithfully ? 
I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O ! he 

knows it, 

Without one word from me. 

I wrote it, and I folded it. and put a seal 

upon it ; 
'Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my 

best bonnet ; 
For I would not have the postmaster make his 

remarks upon it. 
As I said inside the letter that I loved him 

faithfully. 
I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O! he 

knows it, 

Without one word from me. 

My heart was full, but when I wrote, I dared 

not put the half in ; 
The neighbors know I love him, and they're 

mighty fond of chaffin'. 
So I dared not write his name outside, for fear 

they would belaughin'. 



} 



54 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



So I wrote, "From little Kate, to one whom she 

loves faithfully." 
I love him faithfully, and he knows it, O ! he 

knows it, 

Without one word from me. 

Now, girls, would you believe it, that post- 
man's so consaited. 

No answer will he bring me, so long as I have 
waited ; 

But maybe there mayn't be one, for the raisin 
that I stated. 

That my love can neither read nor write, but he 
loves me faithfully. 

He loves me faithfully, aixl I know, wliere'cr 
my love is. 

That ho is true to me. 

LADY DUFFERIN. 



SWEET KILKENNY TOWN. 

I was walking in the fields near fair Boston 
city. 
Thinking sadly of Kilkenny, and a girl that's 
there ; 
When a friend came and toulJ me — late enough, 
and more's the pity— 
"There's a letter waitin" for ye, in the post- 
man's care." 
Oh ! my heart was in my mouth all the while that 
he was spakin'. 
For I knew it was from Katey— she's the girl 
that can spell. 
And I could'nt spake for crjin", for my heart 
had nigh been breakin'. 
With long^n' for a word from the girl I love 
so well. 
Oh ! I knew it was from Katey. Who could it be 
but Katey? 
The poor girl that loves me well in sweet 
Kilkenny town. 

Oh ! 'twas soon 1 reached the place, and thanked 
them for the trouble 
They were takin' with my letter, a-sortin" with 
such care; 
And they asked me " was it single?" and I towld 
them 'twas a double ! 
For wasn't it worth twice as much as any 
letter there? 



Then they sorted and they searched, but some- 
thing seemed the matter. 
And my heart it stopped beatin' when 1 
thought what it might be ; — 
Och I boys, would you believe it ? they had gone 
and lost my letter — 
My poor Katey's letter that had come .so 
far to me. 
For I knew it was from Katey. Who could it 
be but Katey? 
The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
kenny town. 

I trembled like an aspen, but I said, " 'tis fun 
your makin' 
Of the poor foolish boy that's so asy for to 
craze; 
Och, gintlemen, then look again, maybe you 
were mistaken. 
For letters, as ye know, boys, are just as like 
as pase !" 
Then they bade me look myself, when they saw 
my deep dejection. 
But, och ! who could search when the tears 
blind the sight ? 
Moreover (as I tould them), I'd another strong 
objection. 
In regard of never learnin' to read or to write. 
For I wasn't cute like Katey, my own darlin' 
Katey, 
The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
kenny town. 

Then they laughed in my face, and they asked 
nie (,tho' in kindness). 
What good would letters do me that 1 
couldn't understand. 
And I answered " were they cursed with deaf- 
ness and with blindness, 
Would they care less for the clasp of a dear 
loved hand?" 
Oh ! the folks that re;id and write (tho' they're 
so mighty clever), 
See nothin' but the words, and they're soon 
read through. 
But Katey's unread letter would be spakin' to 
me ever 
Of the dear love that she bears me, for it 
shows she is true ; 
Oh ! well I know my Katey, my own darlin' 
Katey, 
The poor girl that loves me well in sweet Kil- 
kenny town. 

LADY DUFFERIN. 



LO VEL V MAR Y DON NELL V. 



55 



TO KATHLEEN. 

My Kathleen dearest ! ia truth or seeming 
No brighter vision ere blessed mine eyes 

Than she, for whom, in Elysian dreaming. 
Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 

! Kathleen fairest ! if elfin splendor 
Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 

'Tvvas in the darkness, ere purely tender. 
Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 

Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
This passion-music, each pulse's thrill — 

The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner. 
And God and Nature more glorious still. 

1 see around me new fountains gushing. 

More jewels spangle the robes of night ; 
Strange harps are pealing, fresh roses blushing. 
Young worlds emerging in purer light. 

No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover — 

! give him shelter upon thy breast, 
And bid him swiftly, his long flight over. 

From heav'n drop into that love-built nest. 
Like fairy flow'rets is Love thou fearest, 

At once that springeth like mine from earth ; 
'Tis friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest, 

But Love and lightning have instant birth. 

The mirthful fancy and artful gesture, 

Hair black as tempest, and swan-like breast. 
More graceful folded in simplest vesture 

Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest 
Not these, the varied and rare possession 

Love gave to conquer, are thine alone ; 
But, O ! there crowns thee di\ine expression. 

As saints a halo, that's all thine own. 

Thou art, as poets, in olden story. 

Have pictur'd woman before the fall — 

Her angel beauty's divinest glory — 
The pure soul shining, like God, thro' all. 

But vainly, humblest of leaflets springing, 

1 sing the queenliest flower of love : 

Thus soars the sky-lark, presumptuous singing 
The orient morning enthroned above. 

Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden. 

The minstrel's passion is pure as strong. 
Though Nature fated, his heart, love-laden. 

Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
Farewell ! if never my soul may cherish 

The dreams that bade me to love aspire. 
By memory's altar ! thou shalt not perish. 

First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre! 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. 

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the 

best! 
If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly seethe 

rest. 
Be what it may the time of day, the place be 

where it will. 
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly they bloom 

before me still. 



Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on 

a rock, 
How clear they are, how dark they are, and they 

give me many a shock, 
Red rowans warm with sunshine and wetted 

with a show'r. 
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has 

me in its pow'r. 

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows 

lifted up. 
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like 

a china cup. 
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so 

fine; 
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gather'd in 

a twine. 

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded 

all before ; 
No pretty girl for miles about was missing 

from the floor ; 
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she 

was gay ! 
She danced a jig, she sang a song, that took my 

heart away. 

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 

so complete. 
The music nearly kill'd itself to listen to her 

feet; 
The fiddler moan'd his blindness, he heard her 

so much praised, 
ut bless 'd himself he wasn't deaf when once her 

voice she raised. 



And evermore I'm whistling ur lilting what you 

sung. 
Your smile is always ia my heart, your name 

beside my tongue ; 
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count 

on both your hands, 
And for myself there's not a thumb or little 

finger stands. 



} 



56 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country 

or in town ; 
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast 

down ; 
If some great lord should come this way. and 

see your beauty bright, 
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, 

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur- 
tains fall ! 

O might we live together in a cottage mean and 
small ; 

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the 
only wall ! 

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress, 
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never 

wish it less. 
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am 

poor and low ; 
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you 

may go. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



SWEET SIBYL. 



My love is as fresh as the morning sk)'. 

My love is as soft as the summer air. 
My love is as true as the saints on high, 

And never was saint so fair ! 
O, glad is my heart when I name her name. 

For it sounds like a song to me — 
I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, 

For you love me. As/or vuxchree ! 

Sweet Sibyl ! sweet Sibyl ! my heart is wild 

With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit ; 
I sit In a dream where my Love has smil'd — 

I kiss where her name is writ ! 
O, darling, 1 fiy like a dreamy boy ; 

The toil that is joy to the strong and true, 
The life that the brave for their land employ, 

I squander in dreams of you. 

The face of my Love has the changeful light 

That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; 
The voice of my Love is a strange delight, 

As when birds in the May-time sing. 
O, hope of my heart ! O, light of my life ! 

O, come to me. darling, with peace and rest ! 
O. come like the summer, my own sweet wife, 

To your home in my longing breast. 



Be blessed with the home sweet Sibyl will sway 

With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes ; 
O I happy the love young Sibyl will pay 

With the breath of her tender sighs. 
That home is the hope of my waking dreams — 

That love fills my eyes with pride— 
There's light in their glance, there's joy in their 
beams. 

When I think of my own young bride. 



BY A DAISY-BROWED STRAME. 

Oh, she dwells by a daisy-browed stramc. 

In one of the purtiest valleys — 
The girl I'm not goin' to name. 

For she's none of your Jennys or Sallys. 
So there shan't be a slur or a slight 

On Derr)''s wee blossomin' daughter. 
That's as pure in my heart, and as bright 

As the sun on the breast of Foyle water 

Wee birds on the bushes all round. 

So merrily whistlin' and singin' ; 
Wee calves skippin' over the ground. 

Where the shamrock and daisy are springin'- 
Your time appears almost as fine 

As your forebearers friskin' through Aiden ; 
But your pleasures are nothin' to mine, 

By the side of my innocent maiden. 

Her cheek colors red and then white. 

When up the green loanin" I'm comin'. 
For she drapped a wee saicret one night 

By the star that shines first in the gloamin'. 
Iver since it, by night and by day. 

I'm beside myself fairly with gladness ! 
And faith, I heerd somebody say. 

That love's but a beautiful madness. 

Not a blot on her brightness I see. 

She's the goold of perfection all over ; 
But her faults would be beauties to me. 

If a fault I had eyes to discover. 
This evenin' down by the spring. 

Where the moon at her shadow is gazin". 
We'll meet when the bat's on the wing. 

And the craiks clamor over the grazin'. 

HENRY M. FLETCHER. 



THE PILGRIM HARPER. 



57 



KITTY BAHN. 



Before the first ray of blushing day, 

Who should come by but Kitty Bahn, [snow. 
With her cheeks like the rose on a bed of 

And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan. 

I looked and looked till my heart was gone. 

With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn, 
Half confiding and half in fear ; 

And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through, 
One blessed minute ; then like the deer. 
Away she darted, and left me here. 

O sun, you are late at your golden gate. 

For you've nothing to show beneath the sky 

To compare to the lass that crossed the grass 
Of the shamrock field ere the dew was dry. 
And the glance she gave me as she went by, 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



SWEET KITTY NEIL. 

" Ah, sweet Kitty Neil ! rise up from your 
wheel. 
Your neat little foot will be weary from spin- 
ning ; 
Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree — 
Half the parish is there and the dance is be- 
ginning. 
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest 
moon 
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened 
valley. 
While all the air rings with the soft, loving 
things 
Each little bird sings on the green shaded 
alley." 

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the 
while, 
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, 
glancing ; 
'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, 
So she couldn't but choose to — go off to the 
dancing. 
And now on the green the glad groups are seen, 
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his 
choosing ; 
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty 
Neil— 
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought 
of refusing. 



Now Feli.K Magee puts his pipe to his knee, 
And, with flourish so free, sets each couple in 
motion ; 
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the 
ground — 
The maids move around just like sw-ans on the 
ocean, 
Cheeks bright as the rose — feet light as the 
doe's — 
Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; 
Search the world all round, from the sky to the 
ground. 
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass 
dancing ! 

Sweet Kate ! who would view your bright eyes 
of deep blue 
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so 
mildly — 
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded 
form — 
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb 
wildly.' 
Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart. 
Subdued by the smart of such painful yet 
sweet love ; 
The sight leaves his eye as he cries, with a sigh, 
" Dance light,for my heart it lies under your 
feet, IrcK.'- 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 



THE PILGRIM HARPER. 

The night was cold and dreary ! — no star was in 

the sky. 
When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised 

his cry ; 
He raised his cry without the gate, his night's 

repose to win. 
And plaintive was the voice that cried : " Ah, 

won't you let me in ?" 

The portal soon was opened, for in the land of 

song. 
The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered 

long ; 
And inner doors were seldom closed 'gainst 

wand'rers such as he, 
For, locks of hearts to open soon, sweet music 

is the key. 

But if gates are oped by melody, so grief can 

close them fast, 
And sorrow o'er that once bright hall its silent 

spell had cast ; 



58 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



All undisturb'd, the spider there his web might 

safely spin, 
For many a day no festive lay — no harper was 

let in. 

But when this harper entered, and said he came 

from far. 
And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of 

the war. 
And he could tell of all who fell, or !;lory there 

did win. 
The warder knew his noble dame would let 

that harper in. 

They led him to the bower, *ne lady knelt in 

prayer ; 
The harper raised a well-knowi. lay upon the 

turret stair ; 
The door was oped with hasty hand, true love 

its meed did win, 
For the lady saw her own true knight, when that 

harper was let in I 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



FANNY POWER. 



The lady's son rode by the mill ; 
The trees were murmuring on the hill. 
But in the valley they were still. 

And seemed with heat to lower : 
They said that he should be a priest. 
For so had vowed his sire, deceased ; 
They should have told him, too, at least. 

To fly from Fanny Power. 

The lonely student felt his breast 
Was like an empty linnet's nest. 
Divinely moulded to be blest. 

Yet pining every hour ; 
For see. amid the orchard trees, 
Her green gown kirtled to her knees. 
Adown the brake, like whisp'ring breeze. 

Went lightsome Fanny Power. 

Her eyes cast down a mellow light 
Upon her neck of glancing white. 
Like starshine on a snowy night, 

Or moonlight on a tower. 
She sang — he thought her songs were hymns ; 
An angel's grace was in her limbs ; — 
The swan that on Lough Erne swims 

Is rude to Fanny Power, 



Returned, he thought the convert dull. 
At best a heavy, heartless lull, — 
No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull. 

No sunshine and no shower. 
The abbot sent him to his cell. 
And spoke of penance and of hell ; 
But nothing in his heart to quell 

The love of Fanny Power, 

He dreamed of her the live-long day ; 
At evening when he tried to pray, 
Instead of other saints, he'd say. 

Oh holy— Fanny Power! 
How happier seemed an exile's lot 
Than living there, unloved, forgot ; 
And, oh ! best joy, to share his cot 

His own dear Fanny Power ! 

'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might,- 
He left the convent's walls one night. 
And she was won to join his flight 

Before he wooed an hour ; 
So, flying to a freer land. 
He broke his vow at Love's command. 
And placed a ring upon the hand 

Of happy Fanny Power. 



i 



THOMAS DAVIS. 



WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE? 

" Why are you wandering here, I pray.' " 

An old man asked a maid one day, 

" Looking for poppies, so bright and red. 

Father," said she, " I'm hither led." 

" Fie ! fie ! " she heard him cr)', 

" Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove. 

Grow in the field and not the grove." 

"Tell me again," the old man said, 

" Why arc you loitering here, fair maid ? " 

"The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear. 

Father," said she " I'm come to hear." 

" Fie ! fie ! " she heard him cr>', 

" Nightingales all, so people say. 

Warble by night, and not by day." 

The sage looked grave, the maiden shy. 

When Lubin jumped over the stile hard by ; 

The sage looked graver, the maid more glum, 

Lubin, he twiddled his finger and thumb. 

" Fie ! fie! " was the old man's cry, 

■' Poppies like this, I own, are rare. 

And of such nightingale's songs beware." 

JAMES KENNY. 




;— it-^- 



^^^ 



ROBIN ADAIK. 



59 



AILEEN AROON. 


ROBIN ADAIR. 


When like the early rose, 


What's this dull town to me? 


Aiken aroon ! 


Robin's not near- 


Beauty in childhood blows. 


He whom I wished to see, 


Aileen aroon ! 


Wished for to hear; 


When like a diadem. 


Where's all the joy and mirth 


Buds blush around the stem. 


Made life a heaven on earth ? 


Which is the fairest gem? 


O, they've all fled with thee. 


Aileen aroon ! 


Robin Adair! 


Is it the laughing eye ? 


What made th' assembly shine 



Aileen aroon! 
Is it the timid sigh ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Is it the tender tone, 
Soft as the stringed harp's moan?. 
Oh, it is truth alone, 

Aileen aroon ! 

I know a valley fair, 

Aileen aroon! 
I knew a cottage there, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Far in that valley's shade 
I knew a gentle maid. 
Flower of the hazel glade, 

Aileen aroon! 

Who in the song so sweet ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Who in the dance so fleet ? 

Aileen aroon! 
Dear were her charms to me. 
Dearer her laughter free. 
Dearest her constancy — 

Aileen aroon! 

Were she no longer true, 

Aileen aroon! 
What should her lover do ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Fly with his broken chain 
Far o'er the sounding main. 
Never to love again, 

Aileen aroon! 

Youth must with time decay, 

Aileen aroon! 
Beauty must fade away, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Castles are sacked in war. 
Chieftains are scattered far. 
Truth is a fixed star, 

Aileen aroon ! 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Robin Adair : 
What made the ball so fine ? 

Robin was there : 
What, when the play was o'er. 
What made my heart so sore ? 
O, it was parting with 

Robin Adair! 

lUit now thou art far from nic, 

Robin Adair; 
Hut now I never see 

Robin Adair ; 
Yet him I loved so well 
Still in my heart shall dwell ; 
O, I can ne'er forget 

Robin Adair! 

\VeIcome on shore again, 

Robin Adair ! 
Welcome once more again, 

Robin Adair! 
I feel thy trembling hand ; 
Tears in thy eyelids stand. 
To greet thy native land, 

Robin Adair! 

Long I ne'er saw thee, love, 

Robin Adair ; 
Still I prayed for thee, love, 

Robin Adair ; 
When thou wert far at sea. 
Many made love to me, 
But still I thought on thee, 

Robin Adair ! 

Come to my heart again, 

Robin Adair ; 
Never to part again, 

Robin Adair; 
And if thou still art true, 
I will be constant, too. 
And will wed none but you, 

Robin Adair! 

LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL* 

! biographical note. 



} 



6o 



POEAfS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



IF I WERE NOT TOO YOUNG. 



In holiday gown and my new-fangled hat. 

Last Monday I tript to the fair ; 
I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what— 

Brisk Roger 1 guessed would be there. 
He wooes me to marry whenever we meet ; 

There's honey sure dwells on his tongue ; 
He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet, 

I'd wed— if I were not too young. 

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold of the boy 

(The vi.xen would fain be his bride). 
Some token she claimed, either ribbon or toy. 

And said that she'd not be denied, 
A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green ; 

Pert Susan wjis cruelly stung ; 
I hate her so much that, to kill her with spleen. 

I'd wed — if I were not too young, 

He whispered such soft pretty things in mine 
ear! 
He flattered and promised and swore ! 
Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and gear. 

That, trust me, mvjjockets ran o'er; 
Some ballads he bought me, the best he could 
find. 
And sweetly their burden he sung; 
Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty, and 
kind, 
I'd wed — if I were not too young. 

The sun was just setting ; 'twas time to retire, 

(Our cottage was distant a mile), 
I rose to be gone— Roger bowed like a squire. 
And handed me over the stile. 
° His arm he threw round me— love laughed in 
his eye. 
He led me the meadows among. 
And prest me so close I agreed, with a sigh. 
To wed — for I was not too young. 

JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 



I O for an hour as the day advances, [dances,) 
I (Out where the breeze on the broom-bush 
Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us. 
Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus ; 
O to be there, and my love before me. 
Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me ; 
Thou would'st but love, and I would woo thee: 
Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me. 

O for an hour where the sun first found us, 
(Out in the eve with its red sheets round us,) 
Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets. 
Pearly and sweet with thy long dark ringlets : 
O to be there on the sward beside thee, 
j Telling my tale though I know you'd chide me ; 
Sweet were thy voice though it should undo me — 
Girl of the dark locks ! closer to me. 

O for an hour by night or by day, love, 
I Just as the heavens and thou might say, love ; 

Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, 
I Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny ! 
I O for the pure chains that have bound me, 
i Warm from thy red lips circling round me ! 

O, in ray soul, as the light above me, 

Queen of the pure hearts, do I love thee ! 
I FRANCIS n.wis. 



NANNY. 



O for an hour when the day is breaking 
Down by the shore, when the tide is making ! 
Fair as a white cloud, thou, love, near me. 
None but the waves and thyself to hear me : 
(J. to my breast how these arms would press thee ; 
Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee; 
O, how the soul thou hast won would woo thee, 
Girl of the snow-neck ! closer to me. 



O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. 

One midsummer's eve, when the Bcl-fircs were 

lighted, 
And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens 

delighted, 
I joined a gay group by the Araglin's water. 
And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's 

daughter. 

Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in 

Kerry .' 
Have you mark'd on the Galtes the bl.ick 

whortleberry .' 
Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater .' 
They're the cheek, eye and neck of O'Donovan's 

daughter ! 

Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round 

mountain } 
The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue 

fountain .' 
Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir 

taught her ? 
They've the step, grace and tone of O'Donw an's 

daughter I 



POLL V O'CONNOR. 



6l 



Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of 
the raven ? 

The rose-buds that breathe in the summer- 
breeze waven ? 

The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic 
water ? 

They're the teeth, lip and hair of O'Donovan's 
daughter ! 

Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers 
departed, 

I taught her a song of some maid broken- 
hearted ; 

And that group, and that dance, and that love- 
song I taught her, 

Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Donovan's 
daughter ! 

God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that 

wooes me, 
God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that 

pursues me, 
That my soul lost and lone has no witchery 

wrought her, 
While I dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's 

daughter ! 

If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder. 

Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide 
border ; 

She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer 
I've besought her. 

That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's daugh- 
ter. 

EDWARD WALSH. 



MARY MAGUIRE. 

Oh ! That my love and I 

From life's crowded haunts could fly, 
To some deep shady vale, by the mountain. 

Where no sound could make its way 

Save the thrush's lively lay. 
And the murmur of the clear-llowing fountaii 

Where no stranger should intrude 

On our hallowed solitude, 
Where no kinsman's cold glance could annoy u 

Where peace and joy might shed 

Blended blessings o'er our bed, 
And love ! love alone still employ us. 



Still, sweet njaiden, may I see 

That I vainly talk of thee ; 
In vain in lost love I lie pining ; 

I may worship from afar 

The beauty-beaming star 
That o'er my dull pathway keeps shining. 

But in sorrow and in pain. 

Fond hope will still remain. 
For rarely from hope can we sever ; 

Unchanged in good or ill. 

One dream is cherished still — 
Oh ! my Mary, I must love thee for ever. 

How fair appears the maid 

In loveliness arrayed. 
As she moves forth at dawn's dewy hour; 

Her ringlets richly flowing, 

And her cheek all gaily glowing, 
Like a rose in her blooming bower. 

Oh ! lonely be his life. 

May his dwelling want a wife. 
And his nights be long, cheerless and dreary. 

Who cold or calm could be. 

With a winning one like thee. 
Or for wealth could forsake thee, my Mary. 



THOMAS FURLONG. 



-From the Irish. 



POLLY O'CONNOR. 

I will not venture to compare 

Those flashing eyes 

To sunny skies ; 
To threads of gold thy wealth of hair ; 
Thy cheek unto the rose's glow. 

Thy polished brow. 
To lilacs glancing in the light. 

Or Parian white ; 
Thy bosom to the virgin snow ; — 

For these 
Are weak and well-worn similes. 

Thine eyes are like— like — let me se( 
The violet's hue ^ 

Reflected through 
A drop of dew ; — 
No, that won't do. 
No semblance true 

In ample nature can there be 

To equal their intensity. — 

Their heavenly blue. 



62 POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


'Twere just as vain to seek . 


Con. munificent in gifts ! 


Thro' every flower to match thy glowing cheek. 


I've seen the full round harvest moon 


No gold could shed 


Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts 


Such radiant glory as ensaints thy head ; 


Upon thy royal rock of Doune. 


Besides, I now remember, 


I've seen the stars that glittering lie 


That golden tresses are but flattered red. 


O'er all the night's dark mourning pall. 


And thine are living amber,— 


But never saw so bright an eye 


As when 'tis ripest, through the waving com 


As lit the glens of Cushendall. 


The sunbeams glance upon a harvest morn. 






I've wandered with a pleasant toil. 


To the pale lustre of thy brow 


And still I wander in my dreams ; 


The lily's self perforce must bow : 


Even from thy white-stoned beach. Loch Foyle. 


Thy bosom as the new-fallen snow 


To Desmond of the flowing streams. 


Is quite 


I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath 


As white. 


To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall : 


And melts as soon with loves warm glow ; 


But never saw such pearly teeth 


But then. 


As her's that smiled by Cushendall. 


While that receives an early stain, 




Thy purer bosom doth still pure remain. 


O Con ! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, 




Thy fields are filled with lowing kine. 


Since to my mind 


Within thy castle wealth untold. 


I cannot find 


Within thy harbors fleets of wine ; 


A simile of any kind. 


But yield not. Con, to worldly pride. 


I argue hence 


Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all ; 


Thou art the sense 


Far richer he who for his bride 


And spirit of all excellence ; 


Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. 


The charm-bestowing fountain whence 




Fate doth dispense 


She leans upon a husband's arm. 


Its varied bounties to the fair. 


Surrounded by a valiant clan. 


The loveliest of whom but share 


In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm. 


A portion of the gifts thou well canst spare. 


Beyond the pearly paven Bann ; 


JOHN BROUGHAM. 


'Mid hazel wood, no stately tree 




Looks up to heaven more graceful tall. 




When summer clothes its boughs, than she, 
McDonnell's wife of Cushendall! 




THE FLOWER OF CUSHENDALL. 


DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 




—Front " Tilt Foray «/ Con O' DoHHell." 


O Con, benevolent hand of peace ! 




tower of valor firm and true ! 
Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece. 






Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. 




Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed. 


THE FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. 


Where green hills rise and white waves fall. 




I have not seen so fair a maid 


Maid of all maids! — and the wide earth is full 


As once 1 saw by Cushendall. 


of them, 




Tender and witching, and slender and tall — 


O Con. thou hospitable Prince ! 


I know a maid takes the shine off the whole of 


Thou, of the open heart and hand 


them ; 


Full oft I've seen the crimson tints 


Kitty, agra, you outrival them all. [you, 


Of evening on the western land. 


Pretty and sweet are you, neat and complete are 


I've wandered north, I've wandered south, 


Type of the grace of an old Irish stock ; 


Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall. 


Rich arc you, rare are you, fresh are you, fair are 


But never saw so sweet a mouth 


you — 


As whispered love by Cushendall. 


Kitty, agra, you're the flower of the flock. 



GILLE MACHREE. 



63 



When I kneel down at Mass where are my 
thoughts, alas ? 

Naught but the light of a bright face I see ; 
All that my praying is, all that I'm saying is, 

" God bless sweet Kitty, and keep her for me." 
Hourly I sigh for you, proudly I'd die for you. 

Joyfully lay down my life on the block ; 
King on his throne for you true love might own 
for you. 

Reigning alone for you, flower of the flock. 

Maid of all maidens, my life is entwined in thine. 

Turning to thee like the flowers to the sun ; 
Tell me, oh ! tell me, thy heart is enshrined in 
mine — 
Tell me, asthore, we had better be one. 
Come with me, roam with me, over the foam 
with me, 
Come to my home with me, near Carrig rock. 
Light of my life to be, sweetheart and wife to be, 
Free from all strife to be, flower of the flock. 
FRANCIS A. FAHY. 



THE MILKMAID. 

•O, where are you going so early ? he said ; 
Good luck go with you. my pretty maid ; 
To tell you my mind I'm half afraid. 
But I wish you were my sweetheart. 

When the morning sun is shining low. 
And the cocks in every farm-yard crow, 
I'll carry your pail 
O'er hill and dale. 
And I'll go with you a-rnilking 

I'm going a-milking, sir, says she. 
Through the dew and across the lea ; 
You ne'er would even yourself to me. 
Or take me for your sweetheart. 
When the morning sun, etc. 

Now give me your milking-stool a while, 
To carry it down to yonder stile; 
I'm wishing every step a mile. 
And myself your only sweetheart. 
When the morning sun, etc. 

•O, here's the stile in-under the tree, 
And there's the path in the grass for me, 
And I thank you kindly, sir, says she. 
And wish you a better sweetheart. 
When the morning sun, etc. 



Now give me your milking-pail, says he. 

And while we're going across the lea. 

Pray, reckon your master's cows to me. 

Although I'm not your sweetheart. 

When the morning sun, etc. 

Two of them red, and two of them white. 
Two of them yellow and silky bright ; 
She told him her master's cows aright. 
Though he was not her sweetheart. 
When the morning sun, etc. 

She sat and milked in the morning sun. 
And when her milking was over and done, 
She found him waiting, all as one 
As if he were her sweetheart. 
When the morning sun, etc. 

He freely offered his heart and hand ; 
Now she has a farm at her command, 
And cows of her own to graze the land : 
Success to all true sweethearts ! 

When the morning sun is shining low. 
And the cocks in every farm-yard crow, 
I'll carry your pail 
O'er hill and dale. 
And I'll go with you a-nii!king. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



GILLE MACHREE. 

Gille machree* sit down by me. 

We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ; 

This hearth's our own, our hearts are one. 
And peace is ours for ever ! 

When I was poor, your father's door 

Was closed against your constant lover ; 
With care and pain, I tried in vain 

My fortunes to recover. 
I said : "To other lands I'll roam, 

Where Fate may smile on me, love ; " 
I said : " Farewell, my own old home ! " 

And I said : " Farewell to thee, love ! " 
Sing Gille machree, etc. 

I might have said, my mountain maid. 
Come live with me, your own true lover ; 

I know a spot, a silent cot. 
Your friends can ne'er discover ; 



•igiu. 



} 



04 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Where gently flows the waveless lidc 

By one small garden only ; 
Where the heron waves his wings so wide. 

And the linnet sings so lonely ! 

Sing GilU machree, etc. 

I might have said, my mountain maid, 

A father's right was never given 
True hearts to curse with tyrant force, 

That have been blest in Heaven. 
But then, I said ; " In after years, 

When thoughts of home shall find her. 
My love may mourn with secret tears 

Her friends thus left behind her." 
Sing Cille machree, etc. 

O, no, I said, my own dear maid. 

For me, though all forlorn for ever. 
That heart of thine shall ne'er repine 

O'er slighted duty — never. 
From home and thee tho' wandering far 

A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
I'd rather live in endless war. 

Than buy my peace with thine, love. 
Sing Gtlle machree, etc. 

Far, far away, by night and day, 

I toiled to win a golden treasure ; 
And golden gains repaid my pains 

In fair and shining measure. 
I sought again my native land. 

Thy father welcomed me, love ; 
I poured my gold into his hand. 

And my guerdon found in thee, love. 
Sing Gitlc machree, etc. 

GERALD GRIFFI> 



MY OWEN BAWN CON. 

My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; 
Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; 
All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are — 
They make his head radiant with beams like a star! 

My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, 
To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; 
And I'd rather face snow-drift and wHnter-wind 

there. 
Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. 



My Owen Bawn Con is a hunter of deer. 

He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear — 

Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters 

flow. 
Ah, there goesmy love, with the dun-dappled roe. 

My Owen Bawn Con is a bold fisherman. 
He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann: 
And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough 
Neagh, [spray. 

Draws up the red trout through the bursting of 

Mv Owen Bawn Con is a bard of the best. 
He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; 
And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a 
sound. [ground. 

As though angels harped o'er us. and fays under- 

They tell me the stranger has given command. 
That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land. 
That all our youth's tresses of yellow be shorn. 
And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn ; 

That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more. 
That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, 
That the net and the arrow aside must be laid. 
For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; 

That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves. 
That the slave must forget his own tongue for a 

slave's, [our ears, 

That the sounds of our lips must be strange in 
And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our 

tears. 

O, sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side. 
I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; 
But ilioii. in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day— 
Away to Tir-oen, then. Owen, away ! 

There are wild woods and mountains, and streams 

deep and clear. 
There are lochs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; 
There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's 

hall, 
And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! 

We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake. 
Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the 
lake ; [there. 

And the snowy swan stirring the green shadows 
Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. 

Farewell, then, black Slemish, green Collon adieu. 
My heart is a-breaking at thinking of you ; 
But tarry we dare not when freedom hath gone,— 
Away to Tir-oen. then. Owen Bawn Con ! 



A'fV KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE. 



65 



Away to Tir-o6n, then, Owen away ! 

We will leave them the dust from our feet as 

a prey, 
And our dwellings in ashes and flames for a 

spoil, — 
'Twill be long ere they quench them with 

streams from the Foyle ! 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



MAIRE BHAN ASTOR. 

In a valley far away. 

With my Maire bhan astor. 
Short would be the summer-day. 

Ever loving more and more ; 
Winter days would all grow long. 

With the light her heart would pour. 
With her kisses and her song. 
And her loving mait go leor. 

Fond is Maire bhan astor, 
Fair is Maire bhan asto , 
Sweet as ripple on the snore. 
Sings my Maire bhan astor. 

Oh ! her sire is very proud. 

And her mother cold as stone ; 
But her brother bravely vow'd 

She should be my bride alone ; 
For he knew I lov'd her well, 

And he knew she loved me too, 
So he sought their pride to quell. 
But 'twas all in vain to sue. 

True is Maire bhan astor. 
Tried is Maire bhan astor. 
Had I wings I'd never soar 
From my Maire bhan astor. 

There are lands where manly toil 

Surely reaps the crop it sows. 
Glorious woods and teeming soil. 

Where the broad Missouri flows; 
Thro' the trees the smoke shall rise, 

From our hearth with mait go leor. 
There shall shine the happy eyes 
Of ray Maire bhan astor. 

Mild is Maire bhan astor. 
Mine is Maire bhan astor. 
Saints shall watch about the door 
Of my Maire bhan astor. 

THOM.^S DAVIS. 



MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE. 

Again the flowery feet of June 

Have tracked our cottage side ; 
And o'er the waves the timid moon 

Steals, smiling like a bride ; 
But what were June or flowers to me. 

Or waves, or moon, or more. 
If evening came and brought not thee — 

My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 

Let others prize their lordly lands. 

And sceptres gemmed with blood, 
More dear to me the honest hands 

That earn my babes their food ; 
And little reck we queens or kings 

When daily labor's o'er ; 
And by the evening embers sings 

My Kallagh dhu asthore. 

And when he sings, his every song 

Is sacred freedom's own; 
And like his voice his arm is strong. 

For labor nursed the bone ; 
And then his step, and such an eye ! 

Ah, fancy ! touch no more ; 
My spirit swims in holy joy 

O'er Kallagh dhu asthore ! 

His voice is firm, his knee is proud 

When pomp's imperious tone 
Would have the freeborn spirit bowed, 

That right should bow alone ; 
For well does Kallagh know his due, 

Nor ever seeks he more ; 
Would heaven mankind were all like you. 

My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 

And Kallagh is an Irishman 

In sinew, soul, and bone ; 
Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban 

Are purer than his own ; 
The wing of woe has swept our skies. 

The foreign foe our shore. 
But stain or change thy race defies. 

My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 

What wonder, then, each word he said 

Fell o'er my maiden day, 
Like breathings o'er the cradle-bed 

Where mothers kiss and pray ; 
Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, 

1 loved those virtues more. 
Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, 

My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 



66 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



O, could this heart, this throbbing thing. 

Be made a regal chair, 
I'd rend its every swelling string. 

To seat you. Kallagh. there : 
And O, if honest worth alone 

The kingly bauble bore. 
No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone. 

My Kallagh dhu asthore ! 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



MY ULICK. 

My Ulick is sturdy and strong. 

And light is his foot on the heather, 
And truth has been wed to his tongue 

Since first we were talking together. 
And though he is lord of no lands. 

Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy. 
My Ulick has health and his hands. 

And a heart-load of love for his M«ry,— 
And what could a maiden wish more } 

One night at the heel of the eve.— 

I mind it was snowing and blowing.— 
My mother was knitting. I b'lieve : 

For mc, 1 was sitting and sewing ; 
My father had read o'er the news. 

And sat there a-humming. " We'll wake him,' 
When Ulick stepped in at the door. 

As white as the weather could make him ; — 
True love never cooled with the frost. 

He shook the snow out from his frieze. 

And drew a chair up to my father ; 
My heart lifted up to my eyes 

To see the two sitting together. 
They talked of our isle and her wrongs 

Till both were as mad as starvation ; 
Then Ulick sang three or four songs. 

And closed with, "Hurrah for the Nation !" 
O, Ulick, an Irishman still ! 

My father took him by the hand. 

Their hearts melted into each other ; 
While tears that she could not command 

Broke loose from the eyes of my mother. 
" Ah, Freedom ! " she cried, " wirrasthrue, 

A woman can say little in it ; 
Hut if it could come by you two, 

I've a guess at the way you would win it, — 
"rwould not be by weeping, I swear." 

CHARI.F.S J. KICKHAM 



MOLLY ASTHORE. 

As down by Banna's banks I strayed 

One evening in May, 
The little birds, with sweetest notes 

Made vocal every spray ; 
They sung their tender tales of love. 
They sung them o'er and o'er — 
Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen ogc. 
My Molly Asthore ! 

The daisy pied, and all the sweets 

The dawn of nature yields. 
The primrose pale, the violet blue. 
Lay scattered o'er the fields ; — 
Such fragrance in the bosom dwells 
Of her whom I adore, — 

Ah! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
My Molly Asthore! 

I laid me down upon a bank. 

Bewailing my sad fate. 
That doomed me thus the slave of love. 

And cruel Molly's hate. 
How can she break the honest heai t 
That wears her in its core } 

Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
My Molly Asthore! 

You said you loved me, Mary, dear — 

Ah! why did I believe? 
Yet who would think such tender words 

Were meant but to deceive ? 
That love was all I asked on earth ; 
Nay, Heaven could grant no more. 
Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
My Molly .Xsthore! 

Oh, had I all the (locks that graze 

On yonder yellow hill. 
Or lowed for me the numerous herds 

That yon green pastures fill. 

With her I love I'd gladly share 

My kine and tieecy store, — 

Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge, 

My Molly Asthore ! 

Two turtle doves above my head. 

Sat courting on a bough ; 
I envied them their happiness. 

To see them bill and coo. 
Such fondness once for me was shown. 
But now, alas ! 'tis o'er,— 

Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen ogc. 
My Molly Asthore ! 



MO CRAOIBHIN CNO. 



67 



Then, fare thee well, my Molly dear, 

Thy loss I e'er shall mourn ! 
While life remains in Strephon's heart, 

'Twill beat for thee alone ; 
Tho' thou art false, may Heaven on thee 
Its choicest blessings pour ! 

Ah ! gra-machree, ma colleen oge. 
My Molly Asthore ! 

GEORGE OGLE. 



MY BRIDEEN. 

My Brideen ! O, my Brideen wherever my lot 

may be. 
My heart in its fondest longings will ever turn 

back to thee ; 
Whether where snows are deepest, or tropical 

sunbeams shine, 

maid of the eyes like mountain lakes, this heart 

will ever be thine. 

With a soul that had never a stain, and a heart 
that knows nothing of guile, 

1 think I catch glimpses of heaven whenever I 

see thy smile ; 
A smile that with thoughts is teeming as lovely 

as summer flowers. 
And making a garden whenever it comes in the 

heart of the passing hours. 



Too bright for the earth that is groaning with 

tears for the living and dead, 
And only fit for the heaven where never a tear 

was shed. 

My Brideen ! O my Brideen ! I think of the long 

ago, 
When no cloud ever darken'd the skies, or 

shadow the earth below. 
Till all things transfigured by love, seem touch'd 

by a grace divine. 
And the beauty that is around me seems but the 

reflection of thine. 

Till my soul in thy soul seems lost, as a river is 

lost in the sea, 
And the earth is the earth no longer, but only a 

part of thee : 
And the heaven I see in the future doth seem to 

me only fair. 
For I know that where heaven is heavenliest my 

spirit shall find thee there. 

ANONYMOUS. 
'-From the Irish. 



I dreamt of you once in the summer, when the 
birds sang on every tree. 

And the heart of the earth was beating with the 
glory of being free, 

And I knew that the flovi'ers were happier when- 
ever they felt thy foot. 

For thy touch, like the touch of a goddess, thrill'd 
them down to the very root. 

My Brideen ! O, my Brideen ! in vain may the 

sunbeams fall. 
In vain may the birds, the children of heaven, 

sing songs for all. 
For my heart, in its strong, strong longing, no 

beauty or light can see, 
Nor feel the wierd music of nature, unless when 

they're shared by thee. 

My Brideen ! O my Brideen, when I look on 

those eyes of light, 
I feel as my soul were bathed in an ocean of 

thoughts too bright — 



MO CRAOIBHIN CNO. 

My heart is far from Liffey's tide 

And Dublin town ; 
It strays beyond the southern side 

Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, 
Where Cappoquin hath woodlands green, 

Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow. 
Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen. 

Mo craoibhin cno, * 
Low clustering in her leafy screen. 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 

The high-bred dames of Dublin town 

Are rich and fair, 
With wavy plume, and silken gown. 

And stately air ; 
Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair .? 

Can silks thy neck of snow ? 
Or measur'd pace thine artless grace. 

Mo craoibhin cno. 
When harebells scarcely show thy trace. 

Mo craoibhin cno ? 



'■ Pronounced Ma Creez'in Kno; figurative meaning, *'My 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave 

The maidens sung — 
They sung their land the Saxon's slave, 

In Saxon tongue — 
Oh ! bring nic here that Gaelic dear 

Which cursed the Saxon foe. 
When thou didst cliarm my rapturetl ear 

Mo craoibltin cno ! 
And none but God's good angels near, 

Mo cracibUtn cno ! 

I've wandered by the rolling Lee! 

And Lene's green bowers - 
Ive seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea. 

And Limerick's towers — 
And Liffey's tide, where hills of pride 

Frown o'er the flood below ; 
My wild heart strays to Amhan-Mhor's sid 

Mo craoibhiii cno ! 
With love and thee for aye to hide. 

Mo oiioibhin cno ! 

EDWARD WALSH. 



MO CAILIN DONN. 

The blush is on the flower and the bloom is on 

the tree. 
And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling 

their glee ; 
And the dews upon the grasses are made dia- 
monds by the sun. 
All to deck a path of glory for my own Cdilin 
Donn ! "^ 
O, fair she is ! O, rare she is ! O, dearer still 

to me ! 
More welcome than the green leaf to winter- 
stricken tree. 
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, 

dusty bee. 
Is the coming of my tme love — my own 
Cailin Uonn ! 

O Sycamore, O Sycamore! wave, wave your 

banners green : 
Let all your pennons flutter, O Beech, before 

my queen ! 
Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand 

ye run. 
But my heart has passed before ye lO my own 

Cdilin Donn ! 

O. fair she is ! etc. 

• My brown-haired girl. 



Ring out. ring out, O Linden, your merr)', leafy 

bells: 
Unveil your brilliant torches. O Chestnut, to the 

dells ; 
Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for mom 

it cometh on. 
O. the morn of all delight to me — my own 

Cdilin Donn ! 

Q. fair she is ! etc. 

She is coming where we parted, where she wan- 
ders every day ; 

There's a gay surprise before her. who thinks 
me far away. 

O. like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of 
freedom's won. 

Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cailin 
Donn ! 

O, fair she is ! etc. 



GEORGE SIGERSO 



■ Irish. 



AILLEEN. 

'Tis not for love of gold I go, 

'Tis not for love of fame ; 
Tho' fortune should her smile bestow. 

And 1 may win a name, 

Ailleen. 

And I may win a name. 

And yet it is for gold I go, 

And yet it is for fame. 
That they may deck another brow, 

And bless another name, 

Ailleen, 

And bless another name. 

For this, but this. I go — for this 

I lose thy love a while ; 
And all the soft and quiet bliss 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 

Ailleen, 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 

And 1 i;" to brave a world I hate. 

And woo it o'er and o'er, 
And tempt a wave, and trj- a fate 

ITpon a stranger shore. 



Upon a stranger shore, 



Ailleen. 



A WOOING. 



69 



O ! when the bays are all my own, 
I know a heart will care ! 

O ! when the gold is wooed and wo 
I know a brow shall wear, 

Ailleen. 
I know a brow shall wear ! 



And when with both returned again. 

My native land to see, 
I know a smile will meet me there, 

And a hand will welcome me, 

Ailleen, 

And a hand will welcome me ! 



A WOOING. 

O ! when I think of you, dear. 

At once my voice becomes a song ! 
Your eyes so deeply blue, dear. 

The clustering curls that richly throng, 
Revealing, concealing. 

The sweetest charms of hue and form ; 
Your face's soft graces — 

The eyes that awe and lips that warm ! 
My thoughts to love's heat new, dear. 

Expand, gush o'er, and sweep along. 
And, as I think of you, dear. 

At once my voice becomes a song ! 



TALK BY THE BLACKWATER. 

Faint are the breezes and pure is the tide, 
Soft is the sunshine and you by my side ; 
'Tis just such an evening to dream of in sleep— 
'Tis just such a joy to remember and weep ; 
Never before, since you called me your own, 
Were you, I. and Nature, so proudly alone — 
Cushlamacree. 'tis blessed to be 
All the long summer eve talking to thee. 



Dear are the green banks we wander upon — 
Dear is our own river, glancing along — 
Dearer the trust that as tranquil will be, 
The tides of the future for you and for me ; 
Dearest the thought, that, come weal or come 
woe, [they'll flow- 

Through storm or through sunshine together 
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be 
All the long summer eve thinking of thee. 



Yon bark o'er the waters how swiftly it glides — 
My thoughts cannot guess to what haven it rides ; 
As little I know what the future brings near. 
But our bark is the same, and I harbor no fear ; 
Whatever our fortunes, our hearts will be true — 
Wherever the stream flows 'twill bear me with 
Cushlamachree, 'tis blessed to be [you — 
Summer and winter time clinging to thee. 

ELLEN DOWNING. 



I've listened with devotion 

To many a sweet old Irish air. 
But deeper my emotion 

While gazing on your face so fair. 
Like moonlight at lone night 

That music falls — each timid lay 
Gloom-fringed, and tinged — 

But you are like the light of day. 
Though heaven's sunny blue, dear. 

That falls so wide, endures .so long, — 
Lark-like ! — awaked by you, dear. 

At once my voice becomes a song! 

Ambition's tire may heat us, — 

But ah ! the flame, while heating, sears ; 
And patriot love, though sweet, is 

Like flowers nourished half in tears I 
The brave dies, and death buys 

The freedom won in thundering fight ; 
And faint woe and graves strow 

The long, long way from Wrong to Right. 
I ask of Heaven but you, dear: 

Pure joys alone to love belong ; 
And Heaven is kind to woo, dear. 

At once my voice becomes a song ! 

O have me I and I'll give you 

A heart, with all its errors, true ; 
I'll love you and believe you. 

And you will smile on all I do ! 
Yes, you'll cheer my home here. 

And I'll strive for you abroad; 
By day, toils — by night, smiles. 

And mutual tears and prayer to God ! 
So fadeless flowers will strew, dear. 

The humble path we pass along ; 
And life to me and you, dear. 

Will be one high, harmonious song I 

MARTIN MAC DERMOTT. 



70 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



AT THE TRYST. 

O sun ! lift your head from its soft sicy-pillow. 

And loosen your Rolden locks I [low — 

There's something a-stir in the heart o' the wil- 

Theres something a-stir in the flocks. 
A baby-bird's cradle is slowly rocking, 

Like boat on an untried stream, 
And a lambkin's low bleat 
Sounds as softly and sweet, 

As music that floats through a dream, 
O sun — 

As music that floats through a dream ! 

O baby-bird, aren't you weary of resting ? 

Hark how the waking wind blows ! 
Hey ! little eyes, that shine out from your nesting 

Like dewdrops that hide in a rose. 
The grasses are bending their heads in greeting, 

The clover-blooms pinkly smile ; 
And soon, soon it may be 
That — ah ! well, you will see — 

If you wait but a little while, 
Obird — 

If you wait but a little while ! 

Meadow-face, meadow-face, how you are beam- 
Tell me, who is it you see .' |ing ! 

Nay. pansy-eyes, you may never be streaming 
Shy glances, so tender, for inc. [ing. 

Oh ! buttercups, bowed 'neath your yellow crown- 
Hea\7 with over-warm sun. 

/ am heavy with love ! — 

For the blue tide above. 
And the grass-waves that gjreenly run. 

Bright cups — 
And the grass-waves that greenly run ! 

Daisy-buds, daisy-buds, where are you drifting? 

Whom do you quiver to meet .' 
Little white arms, are you lifting, lifting, 

To beckon two tarrying feet ? 
May somebody softly be stealing, stealing, 

Over the meadow-lands green ? 
Oh ! my daisy-buds, say. 
Is he coming to-day? 

Your golden-crowned monarch, 1 mean, 
O buds — 

Your golden-crowned Sun-king, I mean ! 

He comes ! he comes ! O, the glory out-welling 
i From meadow and mount and wold I 
I He comes ! he comes ! O, the song up-swelling 
I From the nest in the willow-hold ! 



j The lamb from her folding in white approaches 
! Like bride in her pure array ; 
I And my heart is as light 
I As a zephyr-wind's flight 

Through the calm of a summer's day. 
O Love — 

Through the calm of a summer's day ! 

Ay, he is coming ! pale star-grass and clover 

And dainty blue flax a-tween, [cover, 

.Ah ! fern-maiden, weep 'neath your bright hair 

Since your smiling will not be seen. 
Never a look for the up-looking daisy. 

Never a glance to the lea ' 
But the red rose of Love 
On his bosom doth move. 

And my love is coming to me, 
O heart — 

My lover is coming to me ! 

MINNIE CILMORE. 



IRISH CASTLES. 

" Sweet Norah, come here and look into the fire. 

Maybe in its embers good luck we might see ; 

But don't come too rrear, or your glances so 

shining 

Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, ma- 

chree ! 

"Just look 'twixt the sods, where so brightly 
they're burning : 
There's a sweet little valley with rivers and 
trees. 
And a house on the bank quite as big as the 
squire's, — 
Who knows but some day we'll have some- 
thing like these ? 

" And now there's a coach and four galloping 
horses, 
A coachman to drive, and a footman behind ; 
That betokens some day we will keep a fine 
carriage. 
And dash through the streets with the speed 
of the wind." 

As Dermot was speaking, the rain down the 
chimney 
Soon quenched the turf-fire on the hollowed 
hearth stone, 
While mansion and carriage in smoke circles 
vanished. 
And left the poor dreamers dejected and lone. 



SWEET GLENGARIFF-S WATER. 



71 



Then Norah to Dermot these words softly whis- 
pered, 
" 'Tis better to strive than to vainly desire ; 
And our little hut by the roadside is better 
Than palace and servants, and coach— in the 
fire !•• 

'Tis years since poor Dermot his fortune was 
dreaming. 
Since Norah's sweet counsel effected his cure : 
For ever since then hath he toiled night and 
morning, 
And now his snug mansion looks down on the 
Suir, 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



HARRY'S AWAY. 

Oh ! my sperrits are down, and I'm troubled and 

pale, 
And I shiver and quake as I listen the gale— 
When I think of the ships tossed about on the 

saye. 
For my darling's upon it — my Harry's away. 

In the day I can't work, and at night I can't 

sleep. 
For my heart and my head that it aises to weep. 
Folk stare at the girl that was happy and gay, 
But it's hard to be happy and Harry away. 

The winds, when I'm up at the midnight alone. 
In the windeys they sigh, in the chimley they 

groan ; 
And I always keep list'nin' to hear what they 

say, 
For fear it's the ghost of my love that's away 

When I'm knitting I look at the nice rosy tree. 
That he planted foment the front windey for me ; 
And the path he walked up in the dim evenings 

grey, 
I love to stroll down it since Harry's away. 

And my heart it grows sick when I call to my 

mind 
Iv'ry sintence I said, either cowld or unkind. 
If the Lord send him back— and for that I will 

pray— 
I'll niver spake cross to my love that's away. 



Autumn blasts, as ye're strippin' the valley and 

plain. 
Ye have wakened worse storms in my timorous 

brain ; 
But waft him back safe, and I'll watch your wild 

play 
With delight, when — my Harry's no longer away !! 
HENRY M. FLETCHER. 



SLEEP ON, MAVOURNEEN. 

Sleep on, for I know 'tis of me you are dream- 
ing. 
Sleep on, till the sun comes to give you a call. 
Though the pride of my heart is to see your eye 
beaming. 
Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all. 
For then 'tis to yours that my heart's always 
speaking, [way. 

And then 'tis the spell that enchains it gives 
And reveals all the love that I never, when wak- 
ing, [to say. 
Could get round my tongue, in the daylight 



Yes, sleep on, mavourneen, my joy and my 

treasure, 

Not often does sleep get a comrade so fair. 

And no wonder it is that his eye takes a pleasure 

To watch by your pillow while you slumber 

there. [breaking. 

Then sleep, softly sleep, till the day-dawn is 

And peeps in to give you a smile and a call ; 
For though great as my joy is to see you when 
waking. 
Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all. 

FLORENCE liE.^MlSlL 



SWEET GLENGARIFF'S WATER. 

Where wildfowl swim upon the lake 

At morning's early shining, 
I'm sure, I'm sure my heart will break 

With sadness and repining. 
As I went out one morning sweet, 

I met a farmer's daughter. 
With gown of blue, and milk-white feet. 

By sweet Glengariff's water. 

Her jet-black locks, with wavy shine. 
Fell sweetly on her shoulder. 

And, ah ! they make my heart repine 
Till I again behold her. 



72 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



She smiled and passed me strangely by, | 

Though fondly I besought i)er. 
And long I'll rue her laughing eye | 

By sweet (Wengariffs water. 

Where wildfowl swim upon the lake 

At early morning splendor, 
Each day my lonely path I'll take. 

With thoughts full sad and tender. 
I'll meet my love, and sure she'll stay 

To hear the tale I've brought her. 
To marry me this merry May 

By sweet Glengariff 's water. 

ROBERT UWYER JOYCE. 



MY BEAU. 



Oh, I am dinned with rolling drums 

And oft repeated cheers. 
And tired of marching 'mid the throng 

Beside the volunteers ! 
For all day long my heart .ind eyes 

Went with the foremost row. 
Where, handsomest among them all, 

I saw my darling beau. 

The tears were on my cheeks unchecked 

Throughout this woeful day ; 
I did not heed the peoples looks, 

I cared not what they'd say ; 
For why should I disguise my grief. 

Or strive to hide the woe 
That burst unbidden at the thought 

Of parting with my beau .' 

■you surely must have noticed, 

As the ranks went marching by. 
That tall young fellow in the front. 

With such a bright blue eye. 
I know a dozen hearts that ached 

This day to see him go ; 
But I alone among them all 

Could claim him as a beau. 

He was the only beau I had : 

Of all the lads but he 
Seemed ever to have cared to win. 

Or thought of loving mc. 
But had a thousand sought my hand, 

Howe'er so rich, I'd throw 
The greed of gold from out my heart. 

And give it to my beau. 



Yon starlit flag is dear to me. 

Because beneath its shade. 
To fight for what we all believe 

Is right, he stands arrayed. 
Though were he on the other side. 

The stars and bars, I know, 
Would be as dear as stripes and stars, 

While floatmg o'er my beau. 

A victory would be death to me, 

Were he among the slain ; 
I care not who shall win the fight. 

So he comes back again ; 
Nor to which side the bloody tide 

Of war shall ebb or flow. 
If it but brings me home unwrecked 

That man-of-war, my beau. 

MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 



MY BETROTHED. 

O I come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride, 
Too long have they kept thee from my side ; 
Sure I sought thee by meadow and mountain, 

asthore. 
And I watched and wept till my heart was sore. 

While the false to the false did say : 
We will lead her away by the mound and the rath. 
And we'll nourish her heart in its worse than 

death. 
Till her tears shall have traced a pearly path. 

For the work of a future day. 

Ah ! little they knew what their guile could do — 
It has won me a host of the stern and true. 
Who have sworn by the eye of the yellow sun, 
That my home is their hearts till thy hand be won; 

And they've gathered my tears and sighs ; 
And they've woven them into a cloudy frown. 
That shall girt my brow like an ebony crown, 
Till these feet, in iny wrath, shall have trampled 
down 

All. all that betwixt us rise. 

Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride ! 
Thou art dear to my breast as my heart's red tide ; 
And a wonder it is you can tarry so long. 
And your soul so proud, and your arm so strong. 
And your limb without a chain ; [wind. 

And your feet in their flight like the midnight 
When he laughs at the flash that he leaves behind ; 
And your heart so warm, and your look so kind — 
I O ! come to my arms again ! 



MY SAILOR BOY. 



/o 



O, my dearest has eyes like the noontide sun ; 
So bright that my own dare scarce look on ; 
And the clouds of a thousand years gone by. 
Brought back, and again on the crowded sky. 

Heaped haughtily pile o'er pile. 
Then all in a boundless blaze outspread. 
Rent, shaken and tossed o'er their flaming bed, 
Till each heart by the light of the heavens was 

Were as naught to his softest smile ! [read. 

And to hear my love in his wild mirth sing 
To the flap of the battle-god's fiery wing ! 
How his chorus shrieks through the iron tones 
Of crashing towers and creaking thrones, 

And the crumbling of bastions strong ! 
Yet. sweet to niy ear as the sigh that slips 
From the nervous dance of a maiden's lips. 
When the eye first wanes in its love eclipse. 

Is his soul-creating song ! 

Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride ! 
Thou hast tarried too long, but I may not chide ; 
For the prop and the hope of my home thou art. 
Ay, the vein that suckles my growing heart : 

O, I'd frown on the world for thee ! 
And it is not a dull, cold, soulless clod. 
With a lip in the dust at a tyrant's nod. 
Unworthy one glance of the patriot's God 

That you ever shall find in me ! 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



CONAL AND EVA. 

My Conal was poor and he never would sue — 

I said, " I have riches enough for us two;" 

My Conal was proud, from his girl he would take 

No more than her heart— he has left it to break ; 

For, O ! he is toiling far over the sea. 

He never would stoop to owe riches to me. 

My proud love. 

The gold is all mine ; now there's no one to 

share. 
But for treasure or pleasure 'tis little I care, 
For I'm dreaming all night, and I'm thinking all 

day, 
How he's poor and deserted, and far, far away. 
With none to console him if sickness should 

smite, — 
With none to watch o'er him by day or by night. 
My own love. 



If I thought in the land of the stranger he'd find 
A voice that could soothe him, a tie that could 

bind — 
If I thought he'd forget me, or wished to resign, 
O ! never should reach him one murmur of mine ; 
But I'd pray that the fair girl he chose for his own 
Might love him and guard him as I would have 

done, 

My dear love. 

But always he told me wherever he'd roam. 
His heart would be true to the true heart at 

home ; 
That he'd love his poor Eva, though far from 

her side. 
And come back, with God's blessing, to make 

her his bride ; 
And sure when I think of each look and each 

vow, 
It seems like a sin to be doubting him now. 
My fond love. 

I'll not wrong him or grieve him by doubting or 

care, 
i But watch o'er him still with my blessing and 

prayer ; 
I'll go down to the sea-side, for there I can see 
The spot where my darling last parted from me, 
And I'll kneel on the bare stones the saints to 

implore 
That Conal and Eva may meet there once more, 
My true love. 

ELLEN DOWNING. 



MY SAILOR BOY. 

There is beauty in Willie's soft smile. 
There is love in my Willie's blue eye ; 

And his voice has the ring 

Of the song-birds in spring. 
And he's straight as the feathery rye. 

I know that the wild cherry's bloom 
Took its tint from his brow, that's so fair. 
And the nuts of Glendhu, 
They have borrowed their hue 
From my true-lover's clustering hair. 

I've found out for myself the fair star 
That the mariner loveth to view ; 

And through the lone night 

I watch its pale light. 
For my sailor's eye rests on it too. 



74 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And I listen the wind of the South, 
As it talks with the leaves on the tree ; 

For that merry South breeze 

Has come over the seas. 
And I'm sure it has tidings for me. 

J.A.MtS McKOWEN. 



MY SOUTHWARD WINGING ORIOLE. 

The fading sunsets golden light 
Was glancing over town and river. 

When flashed a vision on my sight, 
One moment seen, yet fixed forever. 

On memory's retina still glows 

That picture, all my heart entrancing ; 

The rosy mouth — the brow of snow. 
The blue eyes in sweet dalliance dancing. 

The dimples in her soft chin set. 

Her maiden smile serene and peaceful. 
And those brown locks — ah ! never yet 

Were tendrils of the vine more graceful. 

She came in robes of Quaker hue. 

Such livery as the fawns inherit ; 
But then her bonnet's dazzling blue 

Gave hint of her celestial spirit. 

" Great heavens ! " I cried ; " sweet sunny South, 
Your praise — all poets well may rhyme it. 

If such bright flowers as yonder mouth 
Are native to this glowing climate.' 

•• But no ; this fresh and joyous face. 
This eye from which gay fancy sallies. 

This artless and yet winning grace 
All speak of Northern hills and valleys. 

'• The languid beauties hereaway, 
Who half the year for cool air stitle. 

Their features lack the subtle play 
Which leaves this face without a rival."' 

And thus I thought, and thus I dreamed, 
Your life in various colors painting ; 

Now hope's blest ray upon me beamed. 
Now left me in the darkness fainting. 

Ah ! well, these dreams are idle all — 

Mere shadows —and we chase them blindly ; 

But yet my pulses rise or Jail 
Just as 1 find you cross* or kindly. 



And still on memory's retina glows 
Thy picture, heart and brain entrancing ; 

The rosy mouth — the brow of snow. 

And those small feet just made for dancing. 

Ne'er may the future bring regret 

For these bright dreams which now caress me. 
But. long in golden circle set. 

May this fair image smile to bless me. 

CHARLES G. H ALPINE. 



A HARVEST IDYL. 

The sun goes down, and the shadows deepen. 

The gloam steals soft o'er land and sea ; 
The birds grow still, and the winds go sweeping 

Along the hush of the fragrant lea : 
The stars peep out from their purple vesture. 

The round moon smiles thro' her golden vail. 
And o'er the air there is trembling sweetly 

The first low note of the nightingale. • 

Across the dark she can hear him coming — 

The reaper, bent 'neath his yellow sheaves — 
A glor>' breaks from the red log's shining, 

And glows on high from the ruddy eaves. 
A glory breaks from her heart and flickers 

Along her cheek in a crimson flame. 
As some one steps o'er the old farm threshold. 

With lips closed soft on her spoken name. 

She meets his eyes, in their blue reflecting 

The fair young bloom of the early corn. 
His hair sweeps hers with a golden ripple, 

As break of sun on the dusky morn ; 
His lips are sweet, and his cool breath passes 

Across her face, like a wind of May. 
While hand folds hand in a swift, strong pressure, 

W'arm with the words that he dare not say. 

Ah ! young reaper, fear not for thy harvest. 

Lift the sickle and call for the wain ; 
Low before thee, in tremulous waiting, 

She droops her head, like the ripened grain. 
She waits, not long ! for her eyes have spoken, 

.•\nd heart reads heart, tho' the lips be mute — 
Love was the seed of the reaper's sowing, 

And love bears love as a fitting fruit ! 

MINNIE UILMORE. 



GO WHERE GLOR Y WAITS THEE, 



75 



THE FALSE ORACLE. 

She picked a little daisy flower, 

With fringe of snow and heart of gold, 

All pure without and warm within, 
And stood to have her fortune told. 

" He loves me," low she musing said, 
And plucked the border, leaf by leaf, 

" A little — too much — not at all — 
With truest heart, beyond belief. 

" A little — too much — not at all — " 
So rang the changes o'er and o'er ; 

The tiny leaflets fluttered down. 

And strewed the meadow's grassy floor. 

•• A little — too much — not at all 
With truest heart."— Oh magic brief I 

Ah, foolish task, to measure out 
Love's value on a daisy leaf ! 

For, as she plucked the latest left, — 
With " Not at all," I heard her say : 

" Ah, much you know, you silly flower — 
He'll, love me till his dying day ! " 

MARY AINGE DE VERE. 



A MARRIAGE. 



They stood together, he and she. 

As tenderly as lovers may 
Who know the breaking dawn will be 

Their wedding day. 

His flashing eyes told half his bliss ; 

But hers seemed full of silent prayer. 
As if a mightier voice than his 

Had named her there. 

Behind the altar and the ring, 

Behind the brimming cup love holds, 

Her timid soul sought wondering. 
The future's folds. 

His eyes were sweet ; she looked beyond 
Through waiting years of sun and rain. 

His clasp was dear ; she felt the bond 
That might be pain ! 

Yet he all gladness, she half fear. 

Gave kisses only of delight ; 
Love touched and brought them close and near , 

That happy night. 1 



Long afterward he waked to doubt 
But she, with care-worn matron grace. 

Shut patience in and passion out. 
And held her place. 

And never thought nor word went wild — 

Content if only she could see 
His features in the sleeping child 

Across her knee. 

Her doubt had end where his begun ; 

She smiled, nor knew the bitter cost 
At which his prison calm was won — 

His freedom lost ! 

MARY AlNGE DE VERE. 



AMOR TYRANNUS. 

Now could I weep with Autumn-time betrayed 
To Winter's kiss, or mourn the dateless lease 
Of Death's dominion, and the chill surcease 
Of youth, and beauty harshly disarrayed. 
Not by the common destiny dismayed, 
But grieving to behold my wisdom cease, 
Since Love has rudely shattered ancient peace. 
And bears at me w-ith all his arms displayed. 
Can I pluck patience from the stars, to teach 
My sick soul comfort, bidding ' Be of cheer,' 
That am like one who strives in vain to steer 
His storm-shook vessel from some angry reach 
Of dangerous rocks, where breaking terribly 
Thunders the hoarse rebellion of the sea ? 
I JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 

Go where glory waits thee ; 
But, while Fame elates thee. 

Oh ! still remember me. 
When the praise thou meetest. 
To thine ear is sweetest. 

Oh ! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee. 
Dearer friends caress thee. 
All the joys that bless thee 

Sweeter far may be ; 
But when friends are nearest. 
And when joys are dearest. 

Oh ! then remember me. 



76 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



When, at eve, thoti rovest. 


Go ! and all that once delighted 


By the star thou lovest. 


Take— and leave me, all benighted. 


Oh ! then remember me. 


Glory's burning gen'rous swell. 


Think, when home returning. 


Fancy and the poet's shell. 


Bright we"ve seen it burning. 


CHARLES WuLKt 


Oh ! thus remember me. 




Oft as summer closes. 




When thine eye reposes 




On its ling'ring roses 

Once so loved by thee. 


FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET. 


Think of her who wove them, 


I'm going. Jessie, far from thee. 


Her who made thee love them; 


To distant lands beyond the sea; 


Oh ! then remember me. 


I would not, Jessie, leave thee now. 




With anger's cloud upon thy brow. 


When, around thee, dying. 


Remember that thy mirthful friend 


Autumn-leaves are lying. 


Might sometimes tcasi-. but ne'er offend; 


Oh ! then remember me. 


That mirthful friend is sad the while,— 


And, at night, when gazing 


Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile. 


On the gay hearth blazing, 




Oh ! still remember me. 


Ah, why should friendship harshly chide 


Then should Music, stealing 


Our little faults on either side .' 


AH the soul of Feeling, 


From friends we love we bear with those. 


To thy heart appealing. 


As thorns are pardoned for the rose ;— 


Draw one tear from thee ; 


The honey-bee, on busy wing. 


Then let mem'ry bring thee 


Produces sweets, yet bears a sting; 


Strains I us'd to sing thee ; 


The purest gold most needs alloy. 


Oh ! then remember me. 


And sorrow is the nurse of joy. 


THOMAS MOORE. 


Then oh! forgive me ere I part. 




And if some corner in thy heart 


'" 


For absent friend a place might be, — 




Ah, keep that little place for me ! 


GO! FORGET ME. 


•' Forgive — Forget," we're wisely told, 


Go ! forget me ; why should sorrow 


Is held a maxim good and old ; 


O'er that brow a shadow fling .' 


But half the maxim's better yet:— 


Go ! forget me— and to-morrow 


Then, oh ! forgive, but don't forget ! 


Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. 


SAMLEL LOVER 


Smile— though 1 shall not be near thee ; 




Sing— though I shall never hear thee. 
May thy soul with pleasure shine, 






Lasting as the gloom of mine. 


A PLACE IN THY MEMORY. 


Like the sun, thy presence glowing 


A place in thy memory, dearest. 


Clothes the meanest things in light ; 


Is all that i claim. 


And when thou, like him, art going, 


To pause and look back when thou hearest 


Loveliest objects fade in night. 


The sound of my name ; 


All things looked so bright about thee. 


Another may woo thee nearer. 


That they nothing seem without thee. 


Another may win and wear, — 


By that pure and lucid mind 


I care not though he be dearer. 


Earthly things were too refined. 


If I am remembered there. 


Go ! thou vision, wildly gleaming. 


Remember me — not as a lover 


Softly on my soul that fell. 


Whose hope was crossed. 


Go ! for me no longer beaming. 


Whose bosom can never recover 


Hope and beauty, fare'yc well ! 


The light it hath lost ; 



IVE PARTED IN SILENCE. 



77 



As the young bride remembers the mother 
She loves, tho' she never may see ; 

As a sister remembers a brother, 
O dearest, remember me ! 

Could I be thy true love, dearest, 

Could'st thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee ! 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming 

That never must burst upon thine; 
And Heaven, that made thee all blooming. 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me, then, O remember. 

My calm, light love ! 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove, 
That life will, though lonely, be sweet. 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet. 

And a place in thy memory! 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



REMEMBERED. 



Remembered still, my dearest ! remembered ! 

Can it be 
That, after all my waywardness, I'm still so dear 

to thee ? 
Though changed my outward seeming, that thy 

heart no change hath known, 
And the love I thought had left me is still my 

own — my own ? 

C) / remembered ! but I said, " I, too, can be 

unheeding," 
With smiling eyes and aching heart I stilled sweet 

memory's pleading — 
Or dreamed I stilled it — murmuring, "Soon shall 

my strength atone 
For the cares and joys he shares not, and the 

triumphs won alone." 

One word from thee, beloved, and the pent-up 
fount's unsealed. 

And all my self-deceiving to sense and soul re- 
vealed. 

And all that lonesome, toilsome past clear-pic- 
tured unto me, — 

O it never had a day, dear, unlit by prayer for 
thee I 



Fore'er divided .'—yea, for earth ; but our lives 

have wider scope. 
And the bonds between us strengthen with our 

strong supernal hope. 
For oh, my friend, my dearest, how God's love 

halloweth 
This love that, unaffrighted, looks in the face of 

Death ! 

K ■.THKRJNE E. CONWAY. 



SILENTIUM AMORIS. 

As oftentimes the too resplendent sun 
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon 

Back to her somber cave, ere she hath won 
A single ballad from the nightingale. 
So doth thy beauty make my lips to fail, 

And all my sweetest singing out of tune. 

And as at dawn across the level mead 
On wings impetuous some wind will come 

And with its too harsh kisses break the reed 
Which was its only instrument of song. 
So my too stormy passions worked me wrong. 

And lor excess of love my love is dumb. 

But surely unto thee mine eye did show 
Why 1 am silent, and my lute unstrung ; 

F.lse it were better we should part, and go. 
Thou to some lips of sweeter melody. 
And I to nurse the barren memory 

Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. 

OSCAR WILDE. 



WE PARTED IN SILENCE. 

We parted in silence, we parted by night. 

On the banks of that lonely river ; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. 

We met — and we parted fore\er ! 
The night-bird sung, and the stars above 

Told many a touching story. 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence. — our cheeks were wet 

With the tears that were past controlling; 
We vowed we would never, no, never, forget, 

And those vows at the time were consoling. 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine 

Are as cold as that lonely river ; 
.•\ncl that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine. 

Has shrouded its fires forever. 



78 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And now on the midniglit sky I look. 

And my heart grows full of weeping, 
Each star is to nie a sealed book, 

Some tale of that loved one keeping. 
We parted In silence, we parted in tears. 

On the banks of that lonely river, 
But the odor and bloom of those by-gone years 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

JULI.V CRAWFORD. 



A BURDEN. 
Have I not dreamed of you all night long. 

Love, my Love ? 
Shall I not ii-ll my dream in a song, 

O, my Love ? 

Have 1 not worshiped you si.x long years, 
Love, my Love .' 

Have I not given you bounteous tears, 
O, my Love } 



Have 1 not said, when the spring wa 

■' Sweet, my Sweet. 

More than the pride and flower of the year, 
O, my Sweet " .' 

Have I not said in the dawning grey — 

'• Heart, my Heart, 

I shall see my lady ere close of day, 

O, my Heart " > 

Have I not said in the silent night — 

■• Dove, my Dove, 

So soft of voice and rapid of flight, 

O, my Dove " .' 

Have I not said in the summer hours — 
" Rose, my Rose, 

Greatly exalted above all flowers, 

O, my Rose " ? 

Have I not said in my great despair — 
"Soul, my Soul, 

Love is a grievous burden to bear, 

O, my Soul " .' 

Have I not turned to the sea and said — 
•' Life, my Life, 

If she be not mine, be thou my bed, 
O, my Life"? 

Have I not dreamed of your eyes and cried - 
" Light, my Light, 

Lead me where love may be satisfied, 
O, my Light"? 



Have 1 not trodden a weary road. 

Saint, my Saint ? 

And where, at last, shall be my abode, 
O, my Saint ? 

Sometimes I say, in an hour supreme — 
" nride. my Bride ! 

I shall hold you fast, and not in a dream, 
O, my Bride !" 

PHILIP HDURKE MARSTON. 



THE SILENT FAREWELL 
In silence we parted, for neither could speak. 
But the tremulous lips and the fast-fading cheek. 
To both were betraying what neither could tell,— 
How deep was the pang of the silent farewell ! 

There are signs — ah, the slightest! — that love 
understands, [hands,— 

In the meeting of eyes,— in the parting of 

In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep passion 
tell: 

Oh ! such were the signs of our silent farewell ! 

There's a language more glowing love teaches 
the tongue [sung ; 

Than poets e'er dreamed, or than minstrel e'er 
But oh, far beyond all such language could tell. 
The love that was told in that silent farewell. 

SA.MUEL LOVER. 



GOOD-BYE. 



The winter trees are full of woe ; 

The winter winds are wet with tears ; 
The melancholy waters flow 

And sob and mutter secret fears ; 

And trees and winds and waters sigh 
As I, love, say to you. Good-bye. 

I know not why my spirits fail 

While I, love, press your hand in mine. 
I know my tears cannot avail 
To give me other hours divine. 

Like those when my love's lips were red 
For kiss to come, for kisses sped. 



OUTCRY. 



Your voice was silent, but your eye 

And clinging pressure of your hand 
Have given me a sweet reply 

My heart stood still to understand. 

You know my love is strong and pure ; 
I feel your love is deep and sure. 

I take your hand, but dare not meet 

The meaning of your gentle look : 

Love verses I've deemed over sweet, 

But warmest glow in poet's book 

Is cold to this soul-lighted haze 

That blue eyes are to lover's gaze. 

Good-bye : I pray that fate be kind, 

And give me to your presence soon. 
Oh, if a garland I may bind 
Of roses for my love in June, 

I'll crown my love with flow'rs, to be 
Queen Absolute of love and me ! 

RICHARD DOWLING 



OUTCRY. 



In all my singing and speaking, 
I send my soul forth seeking : 
O, soul of my soul's dreaming. 

When wilt thou hear and speak ? 
Lovely and lonely seeming. 
Thou art there in my dreaming ; 
Hast thou no sorrow for speaking ? 

Hast thou no dream to seek ? 

In all my thinking and sighing, 

In all my desolate crying 

I send my heart forth yearning, 

O, heart that may'st be nigh! 
Like a bird weary of flying. 
My heavy heart returning, 
Bringeth me no replying. 

Of word, or thought, or sigh. 

In all my joying and grieving. 
Living, hoping, believing, 
I send my love forth flowing. 

To find my unknown love, 
O, world that 1 am leaving, 
O. heaven where I am going. 
Is there no finding and knowing. 

Around, within, above ? 



0, soul of my soul's seeing, 
O, heart of my heart's being, 
O, love of dreaming and waking 

And living and dying for — 
Out of my soul's last aching. 
Out of my heart just breaking, 
Doubting, falling, forsaking, 

I call on you this once more. 

Are you too high or too lowly 

To come at length unto me.' 
Are you too sweet and holy 

For me to have and to see "* 
Wherever you are, 1 call you, 
Ere the falseness of life enthral yc7, 
Ere the hollow of death appal you, 

While yet your spirit is free. 

Have you not seen, in sleeping, 

A lover that might not stay. 
And remembered again with weeping. 

And thought of him through the day ? — 
Ah ! thought of him long and dearly. 
Till you seemed to hold him clearly. 
And could follow the dull tune merely 

With heart and love far away. 

Have you not known him kneeling 
To a deathless vision of you. 

Whom only an earth was concealing, 

Whom all that was heaven proved true ? 

O, surely some wind gave motion 

To his words like a wave of the ocean ; 

Ay ! so that you felt his devotion, 

And smiled, and wondered, and knew. 

And what are you thinking and saying. 
In the land where you are delaying.' 
Have you a chain to sever ? 

Have you a prison tc break.' 
O, love ! there is one love forever. 
And never another love — never ; 
And hath it not reached you, praying 

And singing these years for you- sake ? 

We two, made one, should have power 
To grow to a beautiful flower, 
A tree for men to sit under 

Beside life's flowerless stream : 
But I without you am only 
A dreamer, fruitless and lonely ; 
And you without me a wonder 

In my most beautiful dream. 

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNr.SSV. 



8o 



PO£JfS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



SUNLIGHT AND SHADE. 

' Wliich would you for Friendship, my < 
maid, 



For me that twilight time is past, those sunrise 

colors gone — 
The prophecies of childhood and the promises of 

dawn ; 



The sunlight of noon or the twilight of shade .'"U^^j ^^.^^^ / ^ ^^^^^^^ ^^.^^^ ^^.,, 



• I would." said the maiden, "the sunlight of noon 

For in it all nature seems glad ; 

When songsters of air their sweet voices attune. 

Our spirits should never be sad. [may ; 

Pure Friendship we always embrace when we 

And seems it not purest in sunlight and day ? " 



speak of what has been, 
While love assumes a gentler tone, and love a 
calmer mien. 

JOHN ANSTER. 



" Which would you for Love. then, my own pretty 

maid. 
The sunliglit of noon or the twiliglit of shade ? " 
"I would," said the maiden, "for Love that is pure. 

The soft placid shadow of even ; 
Then contact is rapture! — Oh, could it endure. 

To lovers our earth would be heaven. 
Love needs not the sunlight his wooings to aid ; 
His whispers sound sweetest when breathed i;i 
tlie shade." 

JOHN CRAWl'OKU V.II..SON'. 



0! IF, AS ARABS FANCY. 

^^\\ ! if, .IS Arabs fancy, the traces on thy brow 

Were symbols of thy future slato, and I could 
read them now. 

Almost without a fear would I explore the un- 
tie chart. 

Believing that the world were weak to darken 
such a heart. 

As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy young 

eyes, 
The skies above are very heaven, the earth is 

paradise ; 
The birds that glance in joyous air. the flowers 

that happiest be. 
rhey toil not. neither do they spin, — are they not 

types of thee .' 

.A.nd yet, and yet, beloved cliild, to thy enchanted 
sight, 

Blest as the present is. the days to come seem 
yet more bright ; 

For thine is hope, and thine is love, and thine the 
glorious power 

Th.it gives to hope its fairy light, to love its rich- 
est dower. 



HAD I A HEART. 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you. 
For. tho' your tongue no promise claim'd. 

Your charms would make me true ; 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong. 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet. 

And lovers in the young. 

But when they find that you have bless 'd 

Another with your heart. 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest. 

And act a brother's part. 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 

Nor fear to suffer wrong. 
For friends in all the aged you'll ineet. 

And brothers in the young. 

RICHARD BRINSLIiY SHERIDAN, 



THE MAIDEN'S DREAM. 

"Thrice hallowd be that beautiful dream of love 
when the maiden's cheek still blushes at the conscious 
of her own innocent thoughts." — Jean Paul. 

.\sk not if she loves, but look 
In the blue depths of her eye. 

Where the maiden's spirit seems 
Tranced in happy dreams to lie. 

All the blisses of her dreams, 
,\11 she may not. must not speak. 

Re.id them in her clouded eye. 

Read them on her conscious cheek. 

See that cheek of virgin snow- 
Damasked with love's rosy bloom ; 

M.irk the lambent thoughts that glow 
Mid her blue eye's tender gloom. 



THE MOTHER'S WARNING 



As if in a cool, deep well, 

Filled by shadows of the night. 

Slanting through, a starbeam fell, 
Filling all its depth with light. 

Something mournful and profound 

Saddens all her beauty now, 
Falls her dark eye to the ground, — 

Flings a sliadow o'er her brow. 

Hath her love-illumined soul 

liaised the veil of coming years — 

Read upon life's mystic scroll 
Its doom of agony and tears? 

Tears of tender sadness fall 
From her soft and love-lit eye, 

As the night-dews heavily 

Fall from summer's cloudless sky. 

Still she sitteth coyly drooping 
Her white lids in virgin pride, 

Like a languid lily stooping 
Low her folded blooms to hide. 

Starting now in soft surprise 
From the tangled web of thought, 

Lo, her heart a captive lies. 

In its own sweet fancies caught 

Ah ! bethink thee, maiden yet. 
Ere to passion's doom betrayed ; 

Hearts where love his seal has set. 
Sorrow's fiercest pangs invade. 

Let that young heart slumber still. 

Like a bird within its nest ; 
Life can ne'er its dreams fulfill — 

Love but yield thee long unrest. 

Ah ! in vain the dovelet tries 

To break the web of tender thought,- 
The little heart a captive lies. 

In its own sweet fancies caught. 

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



And tenderly, tenderly, with the corn, 

Looks of love you threw me. 
Till I stood up with looks of scorn 

And withered your hopes to woo me. 

Often and often I'm dreaming still, 

With tears and smiles together. 
Of the month I lay so weak and ill, 

In the wild and wintry weather ; 
While tenderly, tenderly, you would tap 

To know the news of Nora, 
Till I grew fonder of your rap 

Than my father's voice, acltora. 

But most I remember the plan concealed, 

That through the spring amused you ; 
To watch till you found me in the field 

Where in autumn I refused you ; 
Then earnestly, earnestly, in my eyes 

To gaze till I returned you 
The look of looks and the sigh of sighs. 

On the spot where once I spurned you, 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



OFTEN I DREAM OF THE DAY. 

Often I dream of the day. asthore, 
With secret sighs and laughter. 

When you went reaping the oats before, 
And I came gathering after ; 



THE MOTHER'S WARNING. 

He's false and he's cruel ! 

Oh ! Cathleen, my jewel. 
The depth of my trouble there's nobody knows , 

While sweetly you're sleeping, 

I'm waking and weeping — 
This sad heart can find neither peace nor repose ! 

Ah ! child, you're deceiving 
My fond hopes, and grieving [day , 

The love that would guard you by night and by 
Oh, don't I know rightly, 
I He's meeting you nightly. 

The schemer, that's plotting to lead you astray ! 

There's danger before you ! 
Take heed, I implore you ! 
Give ear to his lies, and his blarney no more ; 
I Mavrone ! he'd deceive you, 

He'd wrong and he'd leave you. 
As false man has left many a poor girl before ! 

You mind Dan O'Leary, 
And his daughter Mary, [gay ; 

That sweet blue-eyed colleen, so winsome and 
With rosy cheeks glowing. 
And fair ringlets flowing, [day. 

1 You'd scarce meet her like in a long summer's 



82 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



With tears now we name her, 
(Hush. Cathleeii ! don't blame her), 

Poor thing shfi was motherless, thoughtless and 
And she never detected, [young. 

Nor even suspected, [tongue ! 

The poison that dropp'd from his flattering 

With false vows he sought her. 

The old man's one daughter, 
Alas ! for the fond heart that loved him too well ! 

Alas! for O'Leary! 

And woe to poor Mary ! 
Sore, angels above might have wept when she fell ! 

The low winds are sighing 

Where Mary is lying. 
And gently the summer dews fall on her grave ; 

There comes old O'Leary 

To pray for his Mary, | wave. 

While o'er him the green willows mournfully 

He's false and he's cruel ! 

Come hither, my jewel. 
Bend low, till 1 whisper the black traitor's name ; 

The serpent whose wiling. 

So sweetly beguiling, |shame ! 

Brought that poor young colleen to sorrow and 

KI.I.F.N FORRESTER. 



THE SPINNING WHEEL. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; 
Bent o'er the lire her old grandmother, sitting, 
Iscrooning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting — 
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." 
" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass 

flapping." 
"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." 
• "Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer 
wind dying." 
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot's stirring ; 
Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
singing. 

" What's that noise that I hear at the window. I 

wonder.'" [under." 

" 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush 



" What makes you be shoving and moving your 

stool on. [Cootun ' .'" 

And singing all wrong that old song of • The 

There's a form at the casement — the form of her 

true love, [for you, love; 

And he whispers, with face bent, " I'm waiting 

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step 

lightly; [brightly." 

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot's stirring ; 
Sprightly and lightly, and airily ringing. 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
singing. 

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her 
fingers, [ lingers ; 

Steals up from the seat — longs to go. and yel 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand- 
mother, (the other 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with 
Lazily, easily, spins tiow the wheel round ; 
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's somd; 
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her 
The maid steps— then leaps to the arms of her 
lover. [swings ; 
Slower— and slower— and slower the wheel 
Lower— and lower— and lower the reel 
rmgs ; [and moving 
Ere the wheel and the reel stop their ringing 
Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
light are roving. 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 



THE BONNIE GRAY MARE. 
" Come saddle me quickly, my bonnie gray mare; 
And whisper, here. Andy— I'm going to the fair! 
Bring down my drab breeches, my best coat of 

frieze — 
There's somebody there that I mean to surprise ! 
My stout loaded whip — I might want it by 

chance — (dance! 

.'Vnd the new yellow waistcoat I wore at the 
My Colleen shall see that there's few can compare 
With Denis Malone and his bonnie gray mare !" 

The gray mare is saddled, and bridled and all ; 
And mounted by Denis, so handsome and tall. 
With his glossy black hair, and his laughing gray 
eye. [sigh ! 

And a smile that would make all the pretty girls 



THE BANK OF THE DAISIES. 



83 



"So-ho! now my beauty! we'll show them this 

day 
What mettle we're made of" — so off and away ! I 
Over hedges and ditches, away to the fair, I 

Hie Denis Malone and liis bonnie gray mare ! 

Over hi^h-ways and bye-ways, through bogs and 

through brakes ; 
By dark purple mountains, and blue sunny lakes; 
Over broom-covered brae, over rush-covered 

plain ; [lane ; ■ 

Past many an old farm-house, and many a green j 
And orchard, and meadow, and river, and stream. 
And castle, and cabin, fly past like a dream. 
As headlong they scamper away to the fair — 
Young Denis Malone and his bonnie gray mare ! I 

The bright summer sun had gone down in the ' 
west, [nest ; 

And the weary-vi-inged bird had gone home to its 
The path was all silent — the hour was so still — 
When, hark \ how they thunder along by the 

mill- 
One, two, three, four horsemen ! — five, six ! on 

the track 
Of o«^ who would rather not show them his back; 
But what can he do with that sweet Kitty Clare, 
Clasp'd firmly and fast on the bon n ie gray mare? 



MAYING. 



" Let us go maying ! " Robin said 
To Maud, as he helped her over 

A rustic stile, whence the pathway led 

Thro' meadow lands that were white and red 
With blossoms of the clover; 

Where daisies lifted their starry head, 
And violets grew, moreover. 

And, side by side, as the youth and lass. 
Went through the blossomy heather. 

Love followed their footsteps in the grass 

And, in that mischievous way he has. 
Began to ponder whether 

Or good or evil would come to pass 
If he tied the twain together. 

But, when their quest of the mayflowers through. 

In the meadows they abided. 
Under the boughs of the trees that grew 
On a sloping bank, where soft winds blew 

And silver waters glided ; 
Then 1, who heard their whisperings, knew 

How the little god had decided. 

WILLIAM D. KELLY. 



THE BANK OF THE DAISIES. 



Her brothers and cousins are chasing behind. — 
Their loud shouts of vengeance borne past on 

the wind ; . When first I saw young Molly 

But Denis he stops not to heed, or to hear, , Stretched beneath the holly. 

Till their voices grow distant and faint on his ear, j Fast asleep, foreniat her sheep, one dreamy sum- 
And Father O'Connor's white cottage at last 1 mer's day, 

Beams brightly upon them — the danger is past ! With daisies laughing round her, 

Ah! Denis, avourneen! what makes you stop 1 Hand and foot I bound her, 

there, | Then kissed her on her blooming cheek, and 

And lift pretty Kate from the bonnie gray mare.' , softly stole away. 



The priest was at home, and the knot was soon 

tied; [bride! 

And Denis Malone kissed his blushing young 

And now the long years have passed lightly 

away — [day. 

They laugh and they talk of that fine summer's 

When, o'er mountains, and moorlands, and many 

a wild track, [back ! 

They rattled along with their friends (.') at their 

Kate, smiling, assures us, and Denis will swear, 

The best horse in all Ireland's the bonnie gp-ay 

mare! 

ELLEN FORRESTER. 



But, as with blushes burning, 
Tip-toe I was turning. 
From sleep she starts, and on me darts a dread- 
ful lightning ray : 
My foolish flowery fetters 
Scornfully she scatters. 
And like a winter sunbeam she coldly sweeps 
away. 

But Love, young Love, comes stooping 
O'er my daisies drooping. 
And oh ! each flower with fairy power the rosy 
boy renews : 



,S4 



POEMS Ob THE AFtECTlONS. 



Then t*ines each chamiing cluster 
In links of starry lustre, 
And with the chain enchanting my colleen proud 
pursues. 

And soon I met young Molly 
Musing melancholy. 
With downcast eyes and starting sighs, along 
the meadow bank ; 
And, oh ! her swelling bosom 
Was wreathed with daisy blossom. 
Like stars in summer heaven, as in my arms she 
sank. 

ALKKEL) PERCIVAL GRAVKS. 



THE BANKS OF BANNA. 

Shepherds, I have lost my Love, — 

Have you seen my Anna ? 
Pride of every shady grove 

On the banks of Banna. 
I for her my home forsook. 

Near yon misty mountain ; 
Left my flocks, my pipe, my crook. 

Greenwood shade and fountain. 

Never shall I see them more 

Until her returning; 
All the joys of life are o'er, — 

From gladness changed to mourning. 
Whither is my charmer flown ? 

Shepherds, tell me whither ? 
Ah ! woe for me, perhaps she's gone 

Forever and forever ! 

GEORGK OGLE. 



A PASTORAL. 



Her sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove. 

To hide from the rigors of day. 
And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove. 

Among the fresh violets lay ; [dam, 

A youngling, it seems, had been stolen from its 

(Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot). 
That Corydon might, as he searched for his Iamb, 

Arrive at this critical spot. 

As thro' the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps. 
He saw the sweet maid with surprise ; [sleeps, 

"Ye Gods, if so killing." he cried, "when she 
I'm lost when she opens her eyes! 



To tarry much longer would hazard my heart, 
I'll onwards my lambkin to trace;" 

But in vain honest Corydon strove to depart. 
For love had him nailed to the place. 

" Hush, hushed be these birds ! what a bawling 
they keep ! " 

He cried, "you're too loud on the spray : 
Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's 

You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day. [asleep } 
How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid! 

Her cheek he mistakes for the rose ; 
I'd put him to death if I was not afraid 

My boldness would break her repose." 

Young Phillis looked up with a languishing smile, 

" Kind shepherd," she said, " you mistake ; 
I laid myself down just to rest me a while. 

But, trust me, have still been awake." 
The shepherd took courage, advanced with a bow. 

He placed himself close by her side. 
And managed the matter, I cannot tell how, 

But yesterday made her his bride. 

JOHN CU.WINGIIAM. 



AMONG THE HEATHER. 

One morning walking out, I o'ertook a modest 
colkett. 

When the wind was blowing cool, and the har- 
vest leaves were falling ; 

" Is our road by chance the same ? might we 
travel on together }" 

" O, I keep the mountain side," she replied, 
"among the heather." 

" Your mountain air is sweet when the days are 

long and sunny. 
When the grass grows round the rocks, and the 

whin bloom smells like honey ; 
But the winter's coming fast with its foggy, 

snowy weather. 
And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill 

among the heather." 

She praised her mountain home : and I'll praise 

it too. with reason. 
For where Molly is, there's sunshine and flow'rs 

at every season. 
Be the moorland black or white, dees it signify 

a feather. 
Now 1 know the way by heart, every part, 

among the heather.' 



PREFERENCE. 



85 



The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls 

thick and stormy ; 
Yet I'd travel twenty miles with the welcome 

that's before me ; 
Singing hi for Eskydun, in the teeth of wind and 

weather ! 
Love 'ill warm me as I go through the snow, 

among the heather. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



ENDYMION. 



The apple trees are hung with gold. 

And birds are loud in Arcady. 
The sheep lie bleating in the fold, 
The wild goat runs across the wold. 
But yesterday his love he told, 

I know he will come back to me. 
O, rising moon! O, Lady moon! 

Be you my lover's sentinel. 

You cannot choose but know him well, 
For he is shod with purple shoon. 
You cannot choose but know my love. 

For he a shepherd's crook doth bear. 
And he is soft as any dove, 

And brown and curly is his hair. 

The turtle now has ceased to call 
Upon her crimson-footed groom. 

The gray wolf prowls abgut the stall. 

The lily's singing seneschal 

Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all 

The violet hills are lost in gloom. 

O, risen moon ! O, holy moon ! 
Stand on the top of Helice, 
And if my own true love you see. 

Ah ! if you see the purple shoon. 

The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair. 
The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, 

Tell him that I am waiting where 
The rushlight glimmers in the farm. 

The falling dew is cold and chill, 

And no bird sings in .■\rcady, 
The little fawns have left the hill, 
Even the tired daffodil 
Has closed its gilded doors, and still 

My lover comes not back to me. 
False moon ! False moon ! O, waning moon ! 

Where is my own true lover gone. 

Where are the lips vermilion. 



The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? 
Why spread that silver pavilion. 

Why wear that veil of drifting mist .' 
Ah ! thou hast young Endymion, 

Thou hast the lips that should be kissed ! 

OSCAR WILDE. 



PREFERENCE. 
Not in scorn do I reprove thee. 

Not in pride thy vows I waive ; 
But, believe, 1 could not love thee 

Wert thou prince, and I a slave. 
These then, are thine oaths of passion ! 

This thy tenderness for me ? 
Judged even by thine own confession. 

Thou art steeped in perfidy. 

Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me- 

Thus I read thee long ago ; 
Therefore dared I not deceive thee 

Even with friendship's gentle show ; 
Therefore, with impassive coldness 

Have I ever met thy gaze ; 
Though full oft with daring boldness 

Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise. 

Why that smile .' Thou now art deeming 

This my coldness all untrue, — 
But a mask of frozen seeming. 

Hiding secret fires from view. 
Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver ; 

Nay — be calm, for I am so: 
Does it burn ? Does my lip quiver .? 

Has mine eye a troubled glow } 

Canst thou call a moment's color 

To my forehead — to my cheek } 
Canst thou tinge their tranquil pallor 

With one flattering, feverish streak? 
Am I marble ? What ! no woman 

Could so calm before thee stand? 
Nothing living, sentient, human, 

Could so coldly take thy hand ? 

Yes — a sister might, a mother : 

My good-will is sisterly : 
Dream not, then, I try to smother 

Fires that inly burn for thee. 
Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless ; 

Fury cannot change my mind 
I but deem the feeling rootless 

Which so whirls in passion's wind. 



86 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Can I love ? O, deeply— truly — 
Warmly — fondly — but not thee; 

And niy love is answered duly. 
With an equal energy ! 

Wouldst thou see thy rival ? Hasten, 
Draw that curtain soft aside ; 

Look where yonder branches chasten 
Noon with shades of eventide ; 

In that glade where foliage blending 

Forms a green arch overhead. 
Sits thy rival, thoughtful bending 

O'er a stand with papers spread, - 
Motionless, his fingers plying 

That untircd, unre^ting pen;- 
Time and tide unnoticed flying. 

There he sits, the first of men ! 

Man of conscience — man of reason ; 

Stern, perchance, but ever just ; 
Foe to falsehood, wrong and treason,— 

Honor's shield and virtue's trust ! 
Worker, thinker, tirm defender 

Of Heaven's trust — man's liberty; 
Soul of iron. — proof to slander. 

Rock where founders tyranny ! 

Fame he seeks not. but full surely 

She will seek him in his home; 
This I know, and wait securely 

For the atoning hour to come. 
To that man my faith is given. 

Therefore, soldier, cease to sue ; 
While God reigns in earth and heaven, 

I to him will still be true ! 

CHARLOTTE BROXTE. 



I Though I am dark and homely to the sight — 
A Cyclops I, and stronger there are few — 

Of you I dream through all the quick-paced night. 
I And in the morn ten fawns 1 feed for you. 

And four young bears ; O rise from grots below; 

Soft love and peace with me forever know. 

Last night I dreamed that I, a monster gilled, 
I Swam in the sea and saw you singing there ; 
I gave you lilies, and your grotto filled 

With the sweet odors of all fiowers rare; 
1 gave you apples, as 1 kissed your hand. 
And reddest poppies from my richest land. 

Oh. brave the restless billows of your world : 
They toss and tremble ; see my cypress-grove. 

And bending laurels, and the tendrils curled 
Of honeyed grapes, and a fresh treasure trove 

In vine-crowned /Etna, of pure-running rills! 

O Galatea, kill the scorn that kills I 

Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, 

O Galatea, listen to my prayer. 
Come, come to land, and hear the song of birds : 

Rise, rise, from ocean-depths, as lily-fair 
I As you are in my dreams ! Come, then, O Sleep, 
For you alone can bring her from the deep. 

And Galatea, in her cool, green waves. 

Plaits her long hair with purple flower-bells. 

And laughs and sings, while black-browed 
I Cyclops raves 

I And to the wind his love-lorn stor)- tells : 
I For well she knows that Cyclops will ere long 
I Forget, as poets do, his pain in song. 

MAlRirK K. KI-.AN. 
zrafhrase from Thtocrilus. 



CYCLOPS TO GALATEA. 

Softer than lambs and whiter than the curds, 

Galatea, swan-nymph of the sea ! 

Vain is my longing, worthless are my words ; 
Why do you come in night's sweet dreams to 
me, I 

And when I wake, swift leave me, as in fear 
The lambkin hastens when the wolf is near ? 

Why did my mother on a dark-bright day 

Bring you for hyacinths a-near my cave ? 
I was the guide, and through the tangled way 

1 thoughtless led you ; I am now your slave. 
Peace left my soul when you knocked at my heart- 
Come, Galatea, never to depart. 



SONG OF GOLDEN-HEADED NIAMH. 

Oh ! come with me to Tirnan-og; 

There fruit and blossoms bend each tree. 
Red sparkling wine and honey flow. 

And beauty smiles from sea to sea. 

Your flowing locks will ne'er turn gray. 

No wrinkles on your forehead come. 

Nor burning pain nor grim decay. 

Across the threshold of your home. 

So haste away to Tirnan-og, 

My white steed waits in golden sheen; 
A diadem shall crown thy brow. 
And I will be thy bridal queen. 



GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE, 



87 



The feast is spread, within the hall 

Flash drinking cups with gold encrowned ; 
The harp leans lightly 'gainst the wall 

To strike for thee the welcome sound. 
A hundred sword-blades for thy hand, 

A hundred of the swiftest steeds. 
A hundred hounds, a matchless band 

Where'er the hunted quarry leads. 
So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 

A hundred robes of precious silk, 

And gems from an enchanted mine, 
A hundred kine of sweetest milk, 

And armor of the brightest shine. 
And thou shalt wear that wondrous sword 

Of keenest edge, whose flash is death ; 
The summer wind will hear thy word. 

And gently pour its tender breath. 
So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 

Young virgins, sweetest in the song. 

And beauteous as the morning sun. 
Around thy noble steps will throng 

To make thy path a joyous one ; 
And heroes, in the combat stern. 

In speed and boldness unsurpassed. 
Before whose prowess Fionn would learn 

To bow his haughty head at last. 
So haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 

O Oisin of the powerful hand ! 

First in the chase, first in the war. 
Over our sweet and glorious land 

Thy gallant deeds were borne afar. 
Loch Leine is deep, but deeper still 

In Niamh's soul thy image dwells ; 
Then turn thee westward from this hill 

To where the sun-hued billow swells. 
Oh ! haste away to Tirnan-og, etc. 

JOHN KEEG.'iN C.\SEY. 



GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE. 

" Come hither, come hither, thou snowy dove, 

Spread out thy white wings fast and free ; 
And fly over moorland, hill and grove. 

Till thou reach the castle of gay Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bides in the northern tower, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green 
Go, bid him come to thy lady's bovver. 

For the love of his own dear Gwendoline ! 



" Come hither, come hither, thou lily-white dove. 

Spread out thy white wings fast and free ; 
When thou'st given Sir Gerald my troth and love ; 

In the northern turret of gay Tralee, — 
Then speed thy flight to Dunkerron gate. 

While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
And tell its lord of thy lady's hate, [line." 

That he'll never look more on young Gwendo- 

Away, away went the faithless dove. 

Away over castle, and mount, and tree. 
Till he lighted Dunkerron's gate above, — 

Not the northern turret of gay Tralee ; 
"Sir Donald, my lady hath lands and power, 

While heather is purple and leaves are green ; 
And she bids thee come to her far-off bower 

For the love of thine own dear Gwendoline !" 

Away, away went the false, false dove. 

Nor rested by castle, or mount, or tree. 
Till he lighted a corbeil stone above. 

On the northern turret of gay Tralee ; 
" Sir Gerald, my lady hates thee sore. 

While heather is purple and leaves are green. 
While the streams dance down the hills ; no more 

Shalt thou look on the face of fair Gwendoline I" 

" Thou liest, thou liest, O, faithless dove ! 

I'll take my good steed speedily. 
And hie to the bower of my lady-love. 

And ask at its door if she's false to me ; 
I'll ne'er believe but her heart is true. 

While heather is purple and leaves are green !" 
And never a bridle-rein he drew 

Till he rode to the bower of Gwendoline. 

Dunkerron's lord came by the gate — 

A stout and a deadly foe was he — 
And with lance at rest and with frown of hate 

He rode at Sir Gerald of fair Tralee. 
Sir Gerald bent over his saddle-bow, — 

While heather is purple and leaves are green — 
Struck his lance thro' the heart of his bravest foe 

For the love of his own dear Gwendoline. 

" Fair Gwendoline, 'twas a faithless dove, 
I Yet 1 knew thou wert ever true to me ; 
j 'Twas his words were lies, and thy troth to prove 
' I rode o'er the mountains from fair Tralee !" 
He clasped his arms round that lady gay. 

While heather is purple and leaves are green. 
And the summer-tide saw their wedding day — 

That trusting knight and fair Gwendoline. 
I ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 



88 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



THE WELCOME. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
Come when you're looked (or, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome yc^'ll "ind here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll 
adore you. 
Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted. 
Red is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than 

ever. 
And the linnets are singing, " true lovers don't 
sever." 

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ; 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my 

bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you : 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer- 
vex 'd farmer. 
Or saber and shield to a knight without 

armor ; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars 'rise 

above me. 
Then, wandering. I'll wish you, in silence, to 
love me. 

We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the 

eyrie, 
■We'll tread 'round the rath on the track of the 

fair\-. 
We'll look on the .stars, and we'll list to the river. 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
give her. 
Oh, she'll whisper you : " Love as unchange- 
ably beaming. 
And trust, when in secret most tunefully 

streaming. 
Till the starlight of Heaven above us shall 

quiver, 
As our souls How in one down eternity's river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the morning. 
Come when you're look'd for, or come without 

warning ; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
And the oftener you come here the more I'll 

adore you. 



Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted. 
Red is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than 

ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "true lovers don't 

sever." 

THO.MAS DAVIS. 



WELCOME HOME TO YOU. 

A hundred thousand welcomes, and 'tis time for 
you to come 

From the far land of the foreigner, to your coun- 
try and your home. 

O ! long as we are parted, ever since you went 
away, 

I never passed a dreamless night or knew an easy 
day. 

Do you think I would reproach you with the sor- 
rows that I bore ? 

Sure the sorrow is all over, now I have you here 
once more — 

And there's nothing but the gladness and the love 
within my heart. 

And the hope, so sweet and certain, that again 
we'll never part. 

Did the strangers come around you with true 
heart and loving hand .' 

Did they comfort and console you when you sick- 
ened in their land .' 

Had they pleasant smiles to court you, and silver 
words to bind } 

Had they hearts more fond and lojal than the 
hearts you left behind .' 

There's a quiver on your proud lip, and a pale- 
ness on your brow; 

Maybe if they had so loved you, you would not 
be near me now. 

01 cruel was the coldness which my darling's 
heart could pain ! 

O ! blessed was whatever sent him back to me 
again ! 

A hundred thousand welcomes ! — how my heart 

is gushing o'er 
With the love and joy and wonder thus to see 

your face once more ; 



How did I live without you through these long, For the love of that maid, wherever he strayed, 
long years of woe ? Kept his soul from stain and his heart from guilt. 

It seems as if 'twould kill me to be parted from j Like an angel from God, till his feet retrod 

you now. I The cherished sod where his first love dwelt. 



You'll never part me, darling — there's a promise 

in your eye ; 
I may tend you while I'm living — you will watch 

me when I die ; 
And if death but kindly lead me to the blessed 

home on high, 
What a hundred thousand welcomes shall await 

you in the sky ! 

ELLEN DOWNING. 



WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY. 

At day's declining a maid sat twining 
A garland shining with wild-flowers gay ; 

But her heart was sore, and the tears swelled o'er 
Her eye at the door on that eve in May. 

" And take," she cried, to her young heart's pride, 
" From your plighted bride, on this holy day, 

A true-love token of fond vows spoken 
That may not be broken —these flowers of May. 

" In life and in death, if you hold to your faith. 
Keep ever this wreath, 'twill be sweet in decay; 

Come poor or with wealth, come in sickness or 

health, [May. 

To my heart you'll be welcome as flowers in 

"Yet oh, if ever, when wide seas sever 
Our hearts, you waver in faith to me, 

A true Irish maid will never upbraid 
Affection betrayed - from that hour you're free! 

' I set small store upon golden ore, [the sea ; 

I'll not love you the more for your wealth from 
The hand that will toil at our own loved soil, 

Free from crime or spoil, is the hand for me." 

The blessing half spoke, her fast tears choke. 
And strong sobs broke the young man's prayer; 

One blending of hearts, and the youth departs, — 
The maid weeps alone in the silent air. 

Full many a score the lone maid counted o'er 
Of day-dawns and night-falls — a year lo the 
day — j 

When sadly once more at the seat by the door. 
Stood the youth as before, on that eve in May. 



" I bring you no store of the bright gold ore. 
But, poor as before, I return to decay ; 

For my bride I've no wealth but broken health, 
Hopes withered and dead as these flowers of 
May." 

The maiden has prest her true love to her breast. 

Her joyful haste makes no delay ; 
In his arms she sighs, " 'Tis yourself I prize — 
To my heart you are welcome as flowers in 
May.'' 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 



MY AIN DONALD. 

Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 

The sun is sinking doon. 
The weary songsters, ere they rest. 
Have piped their gloamin' tune. 
The dew is fallin' on the leaf, 
The breezes stir the flower. 
And nature's heart is beatin' calm — 
It is the evenin' hour. 
You're a' my dreams by night, Donald, 

You're a' my tiioughts by day ! 
But, ah I they baith are full of care 

Whene'er you are away — 
Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 

Hey, Donald, my ain Donald ! 

You'll soon be hame wi' me. 
And ilka darksome cloud will fade 

Before your sunny e'e. 
The mither bird that frae the nest 

Can never dare to flee. 
Greets not its mate wi' blither breast 

Than, Donald, I do thee ! 

You're all my dreams, etc. 

Hey, Donald, my brave Donald ! 

I know that, leal and true. 
Your thought is never turned frae me, 

As mine ne'er falls frae you. 
Thus hand in hand and heart in heart. 

We'll share life's joy or gloom, 
And. when the night comes, gently sleep 

Beneath the bonnie broom. 
You're all my dreams, etc. 

JOHN BROUGHAM 



90 



POEMS OF THE AFFECT/ON.'- 



DONAL KENNY. 
"Come, piper, play the ' .Shaskan Reel,' 

Or else the " Lasses on the Heather;' 
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel 

Until we dance once more together. 
At fair and pattern oft before 

Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many; 
But ne'er again this loved old floor 

Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." 

Softly she rose and took his hand, 

And softly glided through the measure. 
While, clustering round, the village band 

Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. 
Warm blessings flowed from every lip 

As ceased the dancers' airy motion ; 
O Blessed \'irgin ! guide the ship 

Which bears bold JJonal o'er the ocean I 

'• Now God be with you all I " he sighed. 

Adown his face the bright tears flowing — 
"God guard you well, avic," they cried, 

" Upon the strange path you are going." 
.So full his breast, he scarce could speak. 

With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, 
lie pressed a kiss on every cheek. 

And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. 

■• Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone. 

For sake of all the days passed over — 
The days you spent on heath and bawn. 

With Donal Ruadh. the rattlin' rover. 
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye 

Has willed my fate" (he whispered lowly); 
•• Another holds thy heart : good bye ! 

Heaven grant you both its blessings holy!" 

A kiss upon her brow of snow, 

A rush across the moonlit meadow. 
Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow. 

The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; 
Away o'er Tullys bounding rill. 

And far beyond the Inny river; 
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, 

And Donal Kenny's gone for ever. 
****** 
The breezes whistled thro' the sails, 

O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving, 
And smothered groans and bursting wails 

Told all the grief and pain of leaving. 
One form among that exiled band 

Of parting sorrow gave no token ; 
Still was his breath and cold his hand. 

For Donal Kenny's heart was broken. 

JUllN K.EEOAN CASEY. 



THE PILOT'S PRETTY DAUGHTER. 
O'er western tides the fair Spring Day 

Was smiling back as it withdrew. 
And all the harbor, glittering gay, 

Return'd a blithe adieu ; 
Great clouds above the hills and sea 
Kept brilliant watch, and air was free 
For last lark first-born star to greet — 
When, for the crowning vernal sweet. 
Among the slopes and crags I meet 
The I'ilot's pretty Daughter. 

Round her gentle, happy face. 
Dimpled soft, and freshly fair. 

Danced with careless ocean grace 
Locks of auburn hair ; 

As lightly blew the veering wind. 

They touch'd her cheeks, or waved behind. 

Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped ; 

Or when to tie her shoe she stooped. 

Below her chin the half-curls drooped, 

And veiled the I'ilot's Daughter. 

Rising, she tossed them g:iily biick. 
With gesture infantine and brief. 
To fall around as soft a neck 

As the wild rose's leaf. 
Her Sunday frock of lilac shade 
(That choicest tint) was neatly made. 
And not too long to hide from uew 
The stout but no-way clumsy shoe. 
And stocking's smoothly filling blue 

That graced the Pilot's Daughter. 

With look half timid and half droll. 
And then with slightly downcast eyes. 

And something of a blush that stole 
Or something from the skies — 

Deepening the warmth upon Iter cheek. 

She turned wlien I began to speak ; 

The firm young step a sculptor's choice ; 

How clear the cadence of her voice ! 

Health bade her virgin soul rejoice — 
The I'ilot's lovely Daughter. 

Were it my lot (the sudden wish)— 

To hand a pilot's oar and sail. 
Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh. 

Spangled with herring-scale ; 
By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be. 
And dawn-blow freshening the sea. 
With weary, cheery pull to shore. 
To gain my cottage-home once more. 
And clasp, belore I reach the door. 

My love, the Pilot's Daughter t 



THE PEASANT'S PILGRIMAGE. 



91 



This element beside my feet 

Allures, a tepid wine of gold ; 
One touch, one taste dispels the cheat, 

"Tis salt and nippinc cold : 
A fisher's hut, the scene perforce 
Of narrow thoughts and manners coarse 
Coarse a ■ the curtains that beseem 
With net- festoons the smoky beam. 
Would never lodge my favorite dream. 
E'en with my Pilot's Daughter. 

To riches of the common earth, 
Endowing men in their own spite, 

The Poor, by privilege of birth. 
Stand in the closest right. 

Yet not the land alone grows dull 

With clayey delve and watery pull : 

And this for me, — or hourly pain. 

But could I sink and call it gain ? 

Unless a pilot true, 'twere vain 

To wed a Pilot's Dauglitcr. 

Lift /icr, perhaps ?— but ah ! I said, 

Much wiser leave such thoughts alone. 
So may thy beauty, simple maid. 

Be mine, yet all thy own. 
Join'd in my free contented love 
With companies of stars above ; 
Who from their throne of airy steep 
Do kiss these ripples as iiiey creep 
Across the boundless darkening deep, — 
Low voiceful wave ! hush soon to sleep 
Tiic gentle Pilot's Daughter ! 

W1LLI.\M ALLINGHAII. 



THE PEASANT'S PILGRIMAGE. 
One morn, as through the dewy air. 

The sun rose o'er the eastern flood, 
A peasant youth and maiden fair 

Within a hillside cottage stood ; 
And round them gathered young and old. 

Tall sires, and mothers gray and mild. 
And pressed their hands in happy fold. 

And murmured blessings on each child , 
For swiftly comes their marriage day, 

And by the custom of the age. 
Unto a saintly shrine to-day 

They'll pace in pious pilgrimage. 
With faith and love each bosom heaves, 

And happiness brims every heart, 
As clustering by the cottage eaves 

They stand to watch the pair depart. 



■' Good by, good by !" the inmates cry. 

And cheeks are kissed and hands are pressed ; 
The sunbeams fleck his bronzed neck. 
I And brood upon her gentle breast ; 
I And warm and kind the summer wind 

Before them waves the woods divine, 
As down the path of purple heath 

They wander toward the sacred shrun-. 

Now onward through the golden morn 

Above the summer ocean's flow. 
By side-long fields of poppied corn. 

And sunny winding roads they go. 
The warm wind, busy with the leaves 

Of twinkling oaks that skirt the way, 
Comes breathing of the wheaten sheaves 

That tent the uplands o'er the bay ; 
From cottage hearths the smoke doth rise. 

And thro' the wooded mountain-breaks 
They see, amid the opening skies. 

The green ravines and purple peaks 
That look along the harvest land. 

And shadow many a singing guest. 
And lapped awhile in noonday dreams, 

Beside a wayside well they rest. 
He plucks the flowers that round it spring. 

And o'er her brow a chaplet weaves. 
The while their happy whispering 

Blends with the murmur of the leaves. 
Till once again by wooded glen 

And hills that greenly watch the brine. 
With autumn's sun they wander on 

Until they reach the sainted shrine. 

"Ah, what," the peasant cried, "is wealth 

That cannot banish care, asthore } 
Sure we've light hearts, and strength and health, 

f- 'd what can any lord have more ? 
We've song and work for summer's hour. 

And cottage hearths for winter's cold. 
And peace is rarer far than power. 

And love, my Mary sweet, than gold 1" 
And as amid the woodland halls 

They pace from out the noonday flame. 
He hears the tinkling waterfalls 

In sprayey accents shape her name : 
All beauteous things that round him lie 

He loves to blend with her and trace 
In glimmering lake, and golden sky. 

The tender image of her face. 
The sun itself is like her crown ; 

He thinks the lustrous stream that there 
Through shadows brown is flowing down. 

Is like the ripple of her hair ; 



92 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And leaves that stray in crispy play 
But fall to make her pathway tine. 

As softly o'er the forest Hoor 
They wander to the sainted shrine. 

Now o'er the distant slopes of heath 

The sea-ascending mists are rolled ; 
Nov.- sinks the autumn sun beneath 

The cooling chasm of pallid gold : 
Beside the songless forest's crown 

A star looks o'er their dusty way ; 
Above the comfortable town, 

The homely cloud of evening gray : 
And now beyond the wild ravine, 

Through branches wet with drizzling rills, 
In darkness clear and cold is seen 

The sullen lake and leaden hills 
That guard the ruined isle below. 

And o'er its leafy altar brood, 
Mid hermit shadows moving slow. 

Along the sacred solitude. 
And as before the cross they stand 

Through breathless spaces of the night, 
The river murmurs glad, the lanti 

Breathes round in desolate delight ; 
And clear and far each spirit star 

That sparkles thro' the depths divine. 
Seems pausing there to hear the prayer 

They murmur by the sainted shrine. 

Oh. sacred is the watch they keep 

Throughout the live-long night alone ; 
In holy silence calm and deep 

They worship till the stars are gone ; 
And day flits past in wandering dreams, 

O'er lessening lengths of road, till dawn 
The western steeps sweet heaven seems 

To smile above their straw-thatched town. 
Where welcome rings amid the glow 

Of yellow evening clear and still, 
And dear old faces smile below. 

As they ascend the homeward hill. 
Come, maidens wreathe the village doors 

With greenest leaves, above, beneath. 
And deck the walls and strew the floors 

With apron-full of blossomed heath ; 
And twine the bridal crown of corn. 

And leave it in the star-lit air. 
Until the freckled autumn morn 

Shall touch it, and the youthful pair, 
'.Mid joyous eyes, and happy skies. 

And singing birds and breathing kine, 
Along the ways of olden days 

Shall pace unto the Marriage Shrine. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



THE HERMIT. 

" Turn, gentle hermit of the dale. 

And guide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 

•' For here, forlorn and lost I tread 
With fainting steps and slow, 

Where wilds immeasurably spread. 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

" Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dangerous gloom. 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

" Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still. 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

"Then turn to-night and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows — 

My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
My blessing and repose. 

" No flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter I condemn — 
Taught by that power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them. 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast 1 bring — 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

" Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 

All earth-born cares are wrong; 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from he'aven descends. 

His gentle accents fell ; 
The modest stranger slowly bends. 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Requir'd a master's care. 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Receiv'd the harmless pair. 



THE HERMIT. 93 


And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The hermit trimmed his little fire. 
And cheered his pensive guest ; 


The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms ; 
The lovely stranger stands confess'd, 

A maid in all her charms. 


And spread his vegetable store, 
And gayly pressed and smil'd ; 

And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
The lingering hours beguil'd. 


"And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried, 

"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
Where Heaven and you reside. 


Around in sympathetic mirth 
Its tricks the kitten tries— 

The cricket chirrups on the hearth. 
The crackling fagot flies ; 


" But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray — 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 


But nothing could a cliarm impart 
To soothe the strangers woe. 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 
And tears began to flow. 


" My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he'; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; 

He had but only me. 


His rising cares the hermit spied— 
With answering care oppress'd ; 

"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 


" To win me from his tender arms 
Unnumber'd suitors came ; 

Who prais'd me for imputed charms. 
And felt or feigned a flame. 


" From better habitations spurn'd. 
Reluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. 
Or unregarded love ? 


" Each hour a mercenary crowil 
With richest proffers strove ; 

Among the rest young Edwin bow'd. 
But never talked of love. 


"Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay — 
And those who prize the paltry things. 

More trifling still than they. 


" In humble, simplest habit clad. 
No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 


"And what is friendship but a name, 
A charm that lulls to sleep ; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
But leaves the wretch to weep .' 


"And when beside me in the dale. 

He carol'd lays of love. 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 

And music to the grove. 


" And love is still an emptier sound— 
The modern fair-one's jest : 

On earth unseen, or only found. 
To warm the turtle's nest. 


" The blossom opening to the day. 
The dews of Heaven refined. 

Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 


" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. 

And spurn the se.x," he said; 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray 'd. 


" The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his ; but, woe to me. 
Their constancy was mine. 


Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift mantling to the view- 
Like colors o'er the morning skies. 
As bright, as transient too. 


" For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touched my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain. 



94 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



•' Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He lefl me to my pride. 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 

'• But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 

And well my life shall pay ; 
III seek the solitude he sought. 

And stretch me where he lay. 

"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid— 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
"I" was so for me that Edwin died. 

And so for him will I." 

" Forbid it. Heaven ! " the hermit cried. 

And clasp'd her to his breast ; 
The wondering fair one turned to chide, — 

'Twas Edwin's self that prcss'd. 

"Turn, Angelina! ever dear — 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own. thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restor'd to love and thee. 

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 

And every care resign; 
And shall we never — never part. 

My life— my all that's mine .' 

" No : never from this hour to part. 

We'll live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too." 

OI.IVKR GOLHS-MITH. 



O'DONNELLAND THE FAIR FITZGERALD. 

A fawn that flies with sudden spring. 

A wild bird fluttering on the wing. 

A passing gleam of April sun, 

She flashed upon me and was gone ! 

No chance did that dear face restore, 

Nor then, nor now — nor evermore. 

But sure I see her in my dreams, 

With eyes where love's first dawning beams, 

And tones, like Irish music, say — 

" You ask to love me, and you may ;" 

And so I know she will be mine. 

That rose of princely Geraldine. 

A voice that thrills with modest doubt 
A tale of love can ill pour out; 
But. oh ! when love wore manly guise, 
And warrior's feats woke woman's sighs. 



With Irish sword, on Irish soil, 
I might have won that kingly spoil. 
But then, perchance, the Uesmond race 
Had deemed to mate with mine disgrace ; 
For mine's that strain of native blood 
That last the Norman lance withstood ; 
And still when mountain war was waged. 
Their sparllis among the Normans raged. 
And burst through many a serried line 
Of Lacy, Burke and Geraldine. 

And yet methinks in battle press 

My love, 1 could not love you less ; 

For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do 

For our old sainted land and you I 

To sweep, a storm, through Barrensmore, 

With Dowera's scattered ranks before. 

Like chaff upon our northern blast. 

Nor rest till Bann's broad waves were passed; 

Till Inbhar sees our Hashing line. 

Till Darha's lordly towers are mine. 

And backward borne, as seal and sign. 

The fairest maid of Geraldine ! 

But, holy Bride,* how sweeter still 
A hunted chief on Faughart hill. 
With all the raging Pale behind. 
So sweet, so strange a foe to find ! 
Soft love to plant where terror spruny. 
With honey speech of Irish tongue ; 
Again to dare Clan Geralt's swords 
For hope of some sweet, stolen words. 
Till many a danger past and gone. 
My suit has sped, my Bride is won, — 
She's proud Clan Connell's queen, and mine. 
Young Geraldine. of Geraldine ! 

But sure that time is dead and gone. 
When worth alone such love had won ; 
For hearts are cold, and hands are bright. 
And faith, and lore, and love arc naught I 
Ah, trust me. no! The pure and true 
The genial past may still renew ; 
Still love as then ; and still no less 
Strong hearts shall snatch a brave succes.s ; 
And to their end right onward go. 
As Erna's tide to Assaroe. 
Oh ! saints may strive for martyr's crown. 
And warriors watch by leaguered town, 
But poor is all their toil to mine 
Till I have won my Geraldine ! 

CHARLES G.AVAN DUFFV. 



' St. Bride, or St. Bridgid. 



THE OLD STORY. 



95 



THE OLD STORY. 

He came across the meadow-pass 

That summer eve of eves, — 
The sunlight streamed along the grass, 

And glanced amid the leaves ; 
And from the shrubbery below. 

And from the garden trees, 
He heard the thrushes' music flow 

And humming of the bees ; 
The garden gate was swung apart — 

The space was brief between ; 
iJut there, for throbbing of his heart. 

He paused perforce to lean. 

He leaned upon the garden gate ; 

He looked, and scarce he breathed ; 
Within the little porch she sate. 

With woodbine overwreathcd ; 
Her eyes upon her work were bent. 

Unconscious who was nigh ; 
But oft the needle slowly went. 

And oft did idle lie ; 
And ever to her lips arose 

Sweet fragments, sweetly sung, 
IJut ever, ere the notes could close, 

She hushed them on her tongue. 

Her fancies, as they come and go. 

Her pure face speaks the while. 
For now it i:; a flitting glow, 

And now a beaming smile ; 
And now it is a graver shade. 

When holier thoughts are there — 
An angel's pinion might be stayed 

To see a sight so fair. 
But still they hid her looks of light. 

Those downcast eyelids pale — 
Two lovely clouds so silken white. 

Two lovelier stars that veil. 



The sun at length his burnmg edge 

Had rested on the hill. 
And save one thrush from out the hedge. 

Both bower and grove were still. 
The sun had almost bade farewell ; 

But one reluctant ray 
Still loved within that porch to dwell 

As charmed there to stay — 
It stole aslant the pear-tree bough. 

And through the woodbine fringe. 
And kissed the maiden's neck and brow. 

And bathed her in its tinTC. 



"O, beauty of my heart !" he said 

" O, darling, darling mine. 
Was ever light of evening shed 

On loveliness like thine ? 
Why should I ever leave this spot. 

But gaze until 1 die } " 
A moment from that bursting thought 

She felt his footstep nigh. 
One sudden, lifted glance — but one, 

A tremor and a start ; 
So gently was their greeting done 

That who would guess their heart ? 



Long, long the sun hath sunken down. 

And all his golden hail 
Had died away to lines of brown 

In duskier hues that fail : 
The grasshopper was chirping shrill — 

No other living sound 
Accompanied the tmy rill 

That gurgled underground, — 
No other living sound, unless 

Some spirit bent to hear 
Low words of human tenderness, 

And mingling whispers near. 



The stars, like pallid gems at first. 

Deep in the liquid sky. 
Now forth upon the darkness burst 

Sole kings and lights on high; 
For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme. 

No rival moonlight strove ; 
Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam. 

Nor more majestic Jove. 
But what if hearts there beat that night 

That recked not of the skies. 
Or only felt their imaged light 

In one another's eyes ? 



And if two worlds of hidden thought 

And longing passion met. 
Which, passing human language, sought 

And found in utterance yet ; 
And if they trembled as the flowers 

That droop across the stream. 
And muse the while the starry hours 

Wait o'er them like a dream ; 
And if, when comes the parting time. 

They faltered still, and clung,— 
What is it all ? — an ancient rhyme 

Ten thousand times besung— 



96 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



That part of Paradise which man 

Without the portal knows. — 
Which liath been since the world began. 

And shall be till its close ! 

JOHN O'HAGAN. 



TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. 

None, unless the saints above. 
Knew the secret of their love ; 
For with calm and stately grace 
Isolde held her queenly place. 
The' the courtiers' hundred eyes 
Sought the lovers to surprise. 
Or to read the mysteries 
Of a love, so rumor said. 
By a magic philtre fed. 
Which forever in their veins 
Burned with love's consuming pains. 

Yet their hands would twine unseen 
In a clasp 'twere hard to .sever; 

And whoso watched their glances meet. 
Gazing as tliey'd gaze forever. 

Might have marked the sudden heat 
Crims'ning on each (lushing cheek, 
As the tell-tale blood would speak 

Of love that never should have been — 

The love of Tristan and his Queen. 

But, what hinders that the two, 

In the spring of their young life. 
Love each other as they do .'' 
Thus the tempting thoughts begin- 
Little recked they of the sin ; 
Nature joined them hand in hand. 
Is not that a truer band 

Than the formal name of wife ? 

Ah I what happy hours were theirs I 

One might note them at the feast 
Laughing low to loving airs. 

Loving airs that pleased them best ; 
Or interchanging the swift glance 
In the mazes of the dance. 
So the sunny moments rolled, 
And they wove bright threads of goki 

Through the common web of life ; 
Never dreaming of annoy. 

Or the wild world's wicked strife ; 
Painting earth and heaven abo\e 

In the light of their own joy. 
In the purple light of love. 



Happy moments, which again 
Brought sweet torments in their train : 
All love's petulance and fears. 
Wayward doubts and tender tears, 
Little jealousies and pride. 
That can loving hearts divide ; 
Murmured vow and clinging kiss. 
Working often bane as bliss; 

All the wild capricious changes 
Thro' which lovers' passion ranges. 
Yet would love in every mood, 
Find Heaven's manna for its food ; 
For love will grow wan and cold. 
And die ere ever it is old, 
That is never assailed by fears. 
Or steeped in repentant tears. 
Or passed thro' the tire like gold. 

So loved Tristan and Isolde, 
In youth's sunny, golden time, 
In the brightness of their prime; 
Little dreaming hours would come. 
Like pale shadows from the tomb. 
When an open death of doom 
Had been still less hard to bear 
Than the ghastly, cold despair 
Of those hidden vows whose smart 
Pale the cheek and break the heart. 

LADY WILDE. 



DEIRDRE AND THE KING. 

It chanced, upon a morn of early spring. 
When flowers began to bloom and birds to sing. 
That Starn, the royal steward, passing by 
The camp of Usna, cast his jurying eye 
On DeirdrS. as she sat beneath a tree 
Outside her tent door. Long and curiously 
He eyed her from the grove wherein he stood. 
Then walked away in silent, gladsome mood. 
Like one who by a lucky chance hath found 
Some treasure long since hidden underground. 
^■et said he naught until the king came home 
From hostile shores, washed by the North Sea's 

foam. 
Where he and his and Usna's host imbrued 
Their spears in blood, and many a tribe subdued ; 
Then went he to the king. " Now, by thy head I 
And by my father's hand, O King !" he said, 
" The gem of gems I've found thee. I have seen 
In Usna's camp bright beauty's peerless queen. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 



97 



The wife of Naisi — beautiful beyond 
Ail youth's imaginings or day dreams fond, — 
Yea, yea! so beautiful that 1 — even I — 
Stood for a moment in wild ecstacy, [then 

And blessed the gods that made her ! Take her 
Unto thy throne, and slay these stranger men 
In open hall, or bid me privately 
To slay them." But the King said, "Far from me, 
! O Starn, be that fell day when friendship's band 
And honor's law I break with my own hand. 
Then tempt me not." But 'Starn said, " Though 

the blood 
Within the heart from childhood frozen stood, 
'T would melt, O King, before her face divine 
And run through all thy veins like boiling wine ! 
But go thyself. Watch from the grove and see. 
Then try and measure what thy love shall be." 
And the King sought the grove himself and saw ; 
And friendship's sacred tie, and honor's law, 
yVnd fame and shame, and sense of wrong and 

right, 
Fled from his maddened bosom at the sight. 
And in their stead there burned a raging flame 
Of blindfold love no power on earth could tame. 
" O Starn," he said, " go seek her privily, 
And promise all a Queen should have from me !" 

One morn while King and prince a hosting made 
From the west ; while every grove and glade 
Around the camp with fragrant bloom was 

bright 
Of daisies, primroses and shamrocks white. 
And hyacinths, that with their trembling bells 
Like a blue robe from heaven shone down the 

dells, [screen 

Twinkling with diamond dew-drops — to the 
Of the sweet grove the old man came unseen. 
And looked, and by the tent found Deirdre there, 
Sitting and weaving flowers in garlands fair, 
To crown her little boy, who on her knee 
Laughed in the dancing shadows of the tree 
That o'er them spread, rustling with young birds' 

wings. 
" Sweet is the song each bird of beauty sings 
To him that owns it," .Starn thought, as he came 
Out from the grove and told his tale of shame 
And purpose dread. Then rose the loyal wife, 
Grasping her babe full firm. " Now, by thy lire, 

aged dog ! " she cried, " Come here no more ! 
Thy little King ! Upon our native shore 

The true hand of a king worth ten like thine 

1 cast away for this brave lord of mine ! 
Begone ! and leave me to my thoughts alone ! " 
He fled, and sinking down she made her moan, 



Clasping her child, and rocking to and fro 
In trembling fear and new awakened woe ! 

Four days before the Baeltin Feast at noon 
The hosts returned in triumph, and full soon 
Went Starn unto the king and told his tale, 
Whereat the monarch's brow with wrath grew 

pale. 
And ten times stronger his hot bosom strove 
With thoughts of vengeance and unlawful love. 
And fierce he cried : " O Starn, come woe or weal, 
Usna shall fall beneath the Alban steel 
Before to-morrow's light !" " Nay, nay, O king!" 
Old Starn replied. " The Baeltin Feast will bring 
The hour to slay them, when unguardedly 
They sit around the board and in their glee 
Quaff the red wine within thy royal hall : 
Then let them feel the Alban sword and fall. 
Else, by the gods ! full stern shall be the fight 
Ere they are slain !" But on that very night, 
When Naisi knew the Alban 's treacherous mind, 
He struck his camp and left the town behind — • 
Full many a mile ere rose the morning ray, 
As eastward to his fleet he made his way. 

ROISERT DWYER JOYCE. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
With its roses, the brightest that earth ever 
gave. 
Its temples, and grottoes, and fountains as clear 
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over its 
wave .' 

O, to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er the lake 

Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws. 
Like a bride, full of blushes, when ling'ring to take 
A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are gleam- 
ing half shown, [own. 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of its 
Here the music of prayer from some minaret 
swells [swinging. 
Here the IVIagian his urn, full of perfume is 
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is 
ringing. 
Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines ; 
When the waterfalls gleam, like a quick fall of 
stars [Chenars 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of 



98 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Is broken by laughs and light echoing feet 
From the cool shining wallcs, where the young 

people meet.— 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes 
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks. 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every one 
Out of darkness, as if but just born of the Sun ; 
When the spirit of Fragrance is up with the day, 
From his harem of night— flowers stealing away; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a 

lover 
The young aspen trees, till they tremble all over; 
When the East is as warm as the light of first 
hopes, 

And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd. 
Shines in thro' the mountainous portal that opes, 

Sublime, from that Valley of Bliss to the world ! 

But never yet, by night or day. 
In dew of spring, or summer's ray. 
Did the sweet Valley shine so gay 

As now it shines, — all love and light. 
Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
A happier smile illumes each brow. 

With quicker spread each heart uncloses, 
And all is ecstacy. — for now 

The Valley holds the Feast of Roses ; 
The joyous time, when pleasures pour 
Profusely round, and, in their shower. 
Hearts open, like the Summer's Rose, — 

The flow'ret of a hundred leaves. 
Expanding while the dew full flows. 

And every leaf its balm receives. 

'Twas when the hour of evening came 

Upon the lake, serene and cool. 
When Day had hid his sultry flame 

Behind the palms of Baramoule, 
When maids began to lift their heads, 
Refresh'd, from their embroider'd beds. 
Where they had slept the sun away, 
And wak'd to moonlight and to play. 
All were abroad. — the busiest hive 
On Bela's hills is less alive. 
When saffron beds are full in flow'r. 
Than looked the Valley in that hour. 
A thousand restless torches play'd 
Through every grove and island shade; 
A thousand sparkling lamps were set 
On every dome and minaret ; 
.\nA fields and pathways, far and near, 
Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 
Tliat you could see. in wandering round. 
The smallest rose leaf on the ground. 



Yet did the maids and matrons leave 
Their veils at home, that brilliant eve ; 
And there were glancing eyes about, 
I And cheeks, that would not dare shine out 
In open day. but thought they might 
Look lovely then, because 'twas night. 
And all were free and wandering. 

And all e.xclaim'd to all they met. 
That never did the summer bring 

So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; — 
The moon had never shed a light 

So clear as that which blessed them there ; 
The roses ne'er shone half so bright. 

Nor they themselves looked half so fair. 
And what a wilderness of flowers ! 
It seemed as though from all the bowers 
And fairest fields of all the year. 
The mingled spoil were scattered here. 
The Lake, too, like a garden breathes 

With the rich buds that o'er it lie. 
As if a shower of fairy wreaths 

Had fall'n upon it from the sky I 
And then the sound of joy, — the beat 
Of tabors and of dancing feet ; 
The minaret crier's chant of glee. 
Sung from his lighted gallery. 
And answered from a ziraleet 
From neighboring harem, wild and sweet ; 
The merry laughter, echoing 
From gardens, where the silken swing 
Wafts some delighted girl above 
The top leaves of the orange grove ; 
Or, from those infant groups at play 
Among the tents that line the way, 
Flinging, unawed by slave or mother 
Handfuls of roses at each other. 

Then the sounds from the Lake, — the low whis- 
pering in boats. 
, As they shoot through the moonlight ; — the 
dipping of oars, 

And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere 
floats. 
Through the groves, round the islands, as if 
all the shores, 
> Like those of Kathay, utter'd music and gave 

An answer in song to the kiss of each wave. 

But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of 
feeling. 

That soft from the lute of some lover are steal- 
ing, — 

Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching 
power 

Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 



99 



O, best of delights, as it everywhere is, 

To be near the lov'd One, — what a rapture is his 

Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may 

glide [his side ! 

O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that One by 
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, 
Think, think what a heav'n she must make of 

Cashmere ! 

So felt the magnificent son of Acbar, [war 

When from power and pomp and the trophies of 
He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all 
With the Light of the Harem, his young Nour- 

mahal ; 
When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror rov'd 
By the banks of that Lake, with his only belov'd 
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully 

snatch [match. 

From the hedges, a glory his crown could not 
And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that 

curl'd [world. 

Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the 
There's a beauty forever unchangingly bright 
Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's 

light, [der, 

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made ten- 
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
This was not the beauty — O, nothing like this, 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of 

bliss I 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it 

flies [eyes ; 

From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the | 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, I 
Like the glimpses a saint hath of heav'n in his | 

dreams. 
When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. 
That charm of all others, was born with her face ! 
And when angry, — for ev'n in the tranquilest \ 

climes [times — j 

Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms some- i 
The short passing anger but seemed to awaken I 
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when | 

shaken. j 

If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye j 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye. 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy re- 

vealings [feelings. I 

From innermost shrines, came the light of her i 
Then her mirth — O, 'twas sportive as ever took 

wing [spring ; 

From the heart vnth a burst, like the wild bird in 



Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages. 
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages. 
While her laugh, full of life, without any control 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from 
her soul ; [discover, 

And where it most sparkled no glance could 
In lip, cheek, or eye, for she brighten 'd all over. 
Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, [sun. 
When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the 
Such, such were the peerless enchantments that 
gave [slave : 

I Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for her 
And though bright was his harem, — a living 

I parterre [were there. 

Of the flow'rs of this planet, — though treasures 
For which Soliman's self might have giv'n all the 
store [shore, — 

That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his 
Yet dim before her were the smiles of them all, 
And the Light of his Harem was young Nour- 
mahal ! 

But where is she now, this night of joy. 

When bliss is every heart's employ ? — 

When all around her is so bright. 

So like the visions of a trance. 

That one might think, who came by chance 

Into the vale this happy night, 

He saw that City of Delight 

In Fairyland, whose streets and towers 

Are made of gems and light and flowers ! 

Where is the lov'd Sultana ? where, 

When mirth brings out the young and fair. 

Does she, the fairest, hide h?r brow. 

In melancholv stillness now ? 

Alas ! — how light a cause may move 

Dissension between hearts that love ! 

Hearts that the world in vain had tried. 

And sorrow but more closely tied ; 

That stood the storm, when waves were rough. 

Yet in a sunny hour fall off. 

Like ships that have gone down at sea. 

When heaven was all tranquility ! 

A something, light as air — a look, 

A word unkind or \vrongIy taken — 
O love, that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin ; 
And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
.A tenderness round all they said; 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone. 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds,— or like the stream. 
That smiling left the mountain's brow- 
As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
"S'a., ere it reach the plain below. 
Breaks into floods that part forever. 

O, you, that have the charge of Love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound. 
As in the Fields of Bliss above 

He sits, wHth flow 'rets fetterd round ; 
Loose not a tie that round him clings. 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For ev'n an hour, a minute's flight 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird, whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies, — 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest 

Lose all their glory when he flies ! 

Some difference, of this dangerous kind, — 
By which, though light, the links that bind 
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
Some shadow in Love's summer heaven. 
Which, though a fleecy speck at first. 
May yet in awful thunder burst ; 
Such cloud it is, that now hangs over 
The heart of the Imperial Lover, 
And far hath banish'd from his sight 
His Xourmahal, his Harem's Light ! 
Hence is it, on this happy night, 
When Pleasure through the fields and groves 
Has let loose all her world of loves. 
And every heart has found its own, 
He wanders, joyless and alone, 
And weary as that bird of Thrace, 
Whose pinion knows no resting-place. 

In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes 
This Eden of the Earth supplies 

Come crowding round— the cheeks are pale. 
The eyes are dim:— though rich the spot 
With every flower this earth has got. 

What is it to the nightingale 
If there his darling rose is not ? 
In vain the Valley's smihng throng- 
Worship hitn as he moves along ; 
He heeds them not, — one smile of hers 
Is worth a world of worshippers ; 
They but the Star's adorers arc- 
She is the Heav'n that lights the Star ! 



Hence is it, too, that Nourmahal. 
Amid the luxuries of this hour. 
Far from the joyous festival. 

Sits in her own sequester'd bower. 
With no one near to soothe or aid 
But that inspired and woundrous maid, 
I \amouna, the Enchantress ; — one 
O'er whom his race the golden sun 
For unremember'd years has run, 
' Yet never saw her blooming brow 
j Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
Nay, rather, as the west wind's sigh 
j Freshens the flower it passes by. 
Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er, 
I To leave her lovelier than before. 
I Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
I And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
; Of other worlds, there came a light 
From her dark eyes so strangely bright. 
That all believ'd nor man nor earth 
Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! 
All spells and talismans she knew. 

From the great Mantra which around 
The Air's sublimer Spirits drew. 

To the gold gems of Afric, bound 
Upon the wandering Arab's arm 
To keep him from the Siltim's harm. 
And she had pledgd her powerful art. 
Pledged it with all the zeal and heart 
Of one who knew, though high her sphere. 
What 'twas to lose a love so dear — 
To find .some spell that should recall 
• Her Selim's smile to Xourm.ihal I 



I 'Twas midnight :— thro' the lattice wreath'd 
With woodbine many a perfumed breath'd. 
I From plants that wake when others sleep, 
I From timid jasmine buds that keep 
! Their odor to themselves all day, 
, But, when the sunlight dies away. 
I Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roves about ; 
When thus Namouna : — " 'Tis the hour 
That scatters spells on herb and flower, 
I .\nd garlands might be gather'd now. 
That, twined around the sleeper's brow 
I Would make him dream of such delights. 
Such miracles and dazzling sight;-, 
.\s Genii of the sun behold 
At evening, from their tents of gold 
Upon th' horizon — where they play 
Till twilight comes, and ray by ray. 
Their sunny mansions melt away. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 



Now, too, a chaplet might be wreath 'd 
Of buds o'er which the moon has breath'd. 
Which worn by her whose love has stray'd 

Might bring some Peri from the skies, 
Some sprite, whose very soul is made 

Of flow'ret's breaths and lovers' sighs, 
And who might tell " 

" For me, for me," 
Cried Nourmahal impatiently, — 
" O, twine that wreath for me to-night !" 
Then rapidly, with foot as light 
As the young musk-roe's, out she flew 
To cull each shining leaf that grew 
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams, 
For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. 
Anemones and Seas of Gold. 

And new-blown lilies of the river, 
And those sweet flow'rets that unfold 

Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ; 
The tuberose, with her silvery light 

That in the gardens of Malay 
Is called the Mistress of the Night, 
So like a bride, scented and bright. 

She comes out when the sun's away, — 
Amaranths, such as crown the maids 
That wander through Zamara's shades. 
And the white moon-flower, as it shows 
On Serendib's high crags to those 
Who near the isle at evening sail. 
Scenting the clove-trees in the gale ; 
In short, all flow'rets and all plants 

From the divine Amrita tree. 
That blesses heaven's inhabitants 

With fruits of immortality, 
Down to the basil tuft that waves 
Its fragrant blossoms over graves. 

And to the humble rosemary 
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
To scent the desert and the dead : — 
All in that garden bloom, and all 
Are gather'd by young Nourmahal, 
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers 

And leaves, till they can hold no more ; 
Then to Namouna flies, and showers 

Upon her lap the shining store. 

With what delight th' Enchantress views 

So many buds, bathed with the dews 

And beams of that bless'd hour !— her glance 

Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, 
As, m a kind of holy trance. 

She hung above those fragrant treasures. 



Bending to drink their balmy airs 
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. 
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
From flowers and scented flame that fed 
Her charmed life — for none had ere 
Beheld her taste of mortal fare. 
Nor ever in aught earthly dip, 

[ But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. 

j Filled with the cool, inspiring smell, 
Th' Enchantress now begins her spell. 
Thus singing, as she winds and weaves 
In mystic form the glittering leaves : 

I know where the winged visions dwell 

That around the night bed play, 
1 1 know each herb and flow'ret's bell, 
j Where they hide their wings by day. 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid ; 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 



The image of love that nightly flies 

To visit the bashful maid, 
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 

Its soul, like her, in the shade ; 
The dream of a future, happier hour 

That alights on misery's brow. 
Springs out of the silvery almond flower. 

That blooms on a leafless bough. 
Then hasten we, maid. 
To twine our braid ; 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

The visions that oft to worldly eyes 

The glitter of mines unfold. 
Inhabit the mountain herb that dyes 

The tooth of the fawn like gold ; 
The phantom shapes — O touch not them — 

That appal the murderer's sight. 
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem. 

That shrieks when pluck'd at night ! 
Then hasten we, maid. 
To twine our braid ; 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

The dream of the injur'd patient mind 

That smiles at the wrongs of men. 
Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind 
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. 
Then hasten we, maid. 
To twine our braid ; 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 



102 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



No sooner was the flower)' crown 

Placed on her head than sleep came down. 

Gently as nights of summer fall. 

Upon the lids of Nuurmahal ; — 

And, suddenly, a tuneful breeze. 

As full of small, rich harmonies 

As ever wind, that o'er the tents 

Of Azab blew, was full of scents. 

Steals on her ear, and floats and swells. 

Like the first air of morning creeping 
Into those wreathy. Red Sea shells. 

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping; 
And now a spirit form'd, 'twould seem, 

Of music and of light, — so fair. 
So brilliantly his features beam. 

And such a sound is in the air 
Of sweetness when he waves his wings, — 
Hovers around her, and thus sings : 

From Chindara's warbling fount I come, 

Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; 
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home. 

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. 
Where lutes in the air are heard about. 

And voices are singing the whole day long, 
And every sigh the heart breathes out 
Is turn'd. as it leaves the lips, to song I 
Hither 1 come 
From my fairy home, 
And if there's a magic in Music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
01 that moonlight wreath. 
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 

For mine is the lay that lightly floats. 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes. 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly ;— 
And the passionate strain that, deeply going. 

Refines the bosom it trembles through. 
As the musk wind, over the waters blowing, 

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too. 

Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway 
The Spirits of past Delight obey ;— 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound. 
And they come, like Genii, hovering round. 
And mine is the gentle song that bears 

From soul to soul, the wishes of love. 
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs 

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. 

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure , 



When Memory links the tone that is gone 
With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; 

And Hope from a heavenly note flies on 
To a note more heavenly still that is ncir. 

The warrior's heart, when touch d by me. 
Can as downy soft and as yielding be 
As his own while plume, that high amid death 
Through the field has shone— yet moves with a 

breath ! 
And, O, how the eyes of Beauty glisten. 

When Music has reach'd her inward soul. 
Like the silent stars, that wink and listen 
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll. 
So. hither I come 
From my fairy home. 
And if there's a magic in Music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath. 
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 

'Tis dawn — at least that earlier dawn 
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn. 
As if the morn had waked, and then 
Shut close her lids of light again; 
And Nourmahal is up and trying 

The wonders of her lute, whose strings — 
O bliss ! now murmur like the sighing 

From that ambrosial Spirit's wings. 
And then her voice, — 'tis more than human — 

Never till now had it been given 
To lips of any mortal woman 

To utter notes st) fresh from heaven 
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs. 

When angel sighs are most divine, — 
" O let it last till night ! " she cries 

" And he is more than ever mine." 
And hourly she renews the lay. 

So fearful lest irs heavenly sweetness 
Should, ere the evening, fade away, — 

For things so heavenly have such fleetness , 
Rut. far from fading, it but grows 
Richer, diviner as it flows ; 
Till rapt she dwells on every string. 

And pours again each sound along. 
Like echo, lost and languishing. 

In love with her own wondrous song. ' 

That evening (trustin,','- that his soul 

Might be from h.iunting love rcleas'd — 

I5y mirth, by music, and the bowl), 
Th' imperial Selim held a feast 

In his magnificent Shalimar : — 

In whose saloons, when the first star 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 



103 



Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
The Valley's loveliest all assembled ; 
All the bright creatures that, like dreams, 
Glide through its foliage and drink beams 
Of beauty from its founts and streams ; 
And all those wandering minstrel maids — 
Who leave— how can they leave ? — the shades 
Of that dear Valley, and are found 

Singing in gardens of the South 
Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound 

As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 



There, too, the harem's inmates smile, — 

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair. 
And from the Oarden of the Nile. 

Delicate as the roses there ; — 
Daughters of Love from Cyprus' rocks. 
With I'aphian diamonds in their locks- 
Light I'eri forms, such as there are 
On the gold meads of Candahar ; 
And they before whose sleepy eyes. 

In their own bright Kathaian bowers. 
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies 

That they might fancy the rich tlowers 
That round them in the sun lay sighing. 
Had been bv magic all set Hying. 



Every thing young, every thing fair 
From east and west is blushing there. 
Except — except — O, Nourmahal ! 
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all. 
The one, whose smile .shone out alone, 
Amidst a world the only one ; 
Whose light, among so many lights. 
Was like that star on starry nights. 
The seaman singles from the sky, 
To steer his bark forever by ! 
Thou wert not there — so Selim thought. 

And every thing seem'd drear without thee ; 
But, ah ! thou wert, thou wert.— and brought 

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. 
Mingling unnotic'd with a band 
Of lutanists from many a land, 
And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
The features of young Arab maids, 
A mask that leaves but one eye free, 
To do its best in witchery, — 
She rov'd, with beating heart, around. 

And waited, trembling, for the minute. 
When she might try if still the sound 

Of her lov'd lute had magic in it. 



The board was spread with fruits and wine ; 
With grapes of gold, like those that .shine 
On Casbin's hills ; — pomegranates full 

Of melting sweetness, and the pears. 
And sunniest apples that Caubul 

In all its thousand gardens bears; — 
Plantains, the golden and the green, 

Malaya's ncctar'd mangusteen ; 
Prunes of Hokara, and sweet nuts 

From the far groves of Samarcand, 
And Basra dates, and apricots. 

Seed of the Sun, from Iran's land : — 
With rich conserve of Visna cherries 
Of orange flowers, and of those berries 
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 
All these in richest vases smile. 

In baskets of pure santal wood. 
And urns of porcelain from that isle 

Sunk underneath the Indian Hood, 
Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
Wines, too, of every clime and hue. 
Around their liquid lustre threw ; 
Amber Rosolli, — the bright dew 
From vineyards of the (}reen Sea gushing ; 
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 

As if that jewel, large and rare, 
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan 
Offer'd a city's wealth, was blushing. 

Melted within the goblets there I 



And amply Selim quaffs of each. 

And seems resolv'd the Hood shall reach 

His inward heart, — shedding around 

A genial deluge, as they run. 
That soon shall leave no .spot undrown'd. 

For Love to rest his wings upon. 
He little knew how well the boy 

Can float upon a goblet's streams, 
Lighting them with his smile of joy ; — 

As bards have seen him in their dreams, 
Down the blue Ganges laughing glide 

Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 
Catching new lustre from the tide 

That with his image shone beneath. 



But what are cups, without the aid 
Of song to speed them as they flow ? 

And see — a lovely Georgian maid. 

With all the bloom, the frcshen'd glow 



I04 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Of her own country maidens* looks, 
When warm they rise from Teflis" brooks 
And with an eye, whose restless ray. 

Full, Moating, dark — O. he, who knows 
His heart is weak, of Heav"n should pray 

To guard him from such eyes as those ! 
With a voluptuous wildness flings 
Her snowy hand across the strings 
Of a syrinda, and thus sings : — 

Come hither, come hither — by night and by day. 
We Imger in pleasures that never are gone ; 

Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away, 
Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 

And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth 
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss; 

And, O, if there be an Klysium on earth. 
It is this, it is this. 

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh 

As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a bee ; 

And precious their tears as that rain from the sky. 

Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. 
O. think what the kiss and the smile must be worth 
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in 
bliss. 
And own if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is thi.s. 

Here sparkles the nectar, that, hallow'd by love, 

Could draw down those angels of old from 

their sphere, [above. 

Who for wine of this earth left the fountains 

And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we 

have here. 

And, bless 'd with the odor our goblet gives forth. 

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would 

For, O, if there be an Elysium on earth, [miss? 

It is this, it is this. 

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute. 

When the same measure, sound for sound, 
Was caught up by another lute. 

And so divinely breathed around, 
That all stood hush'd and wondering. 

And turn'd and look'd into the air. 
As if they thought to see the wing 

Of Israfil, the Angel, there ;— 
So powerfully on every soul 
That new, enchanted measure stole. 
While now a voice, sweet as the note 
Of the charm 'd lute, was heard to float 



Along its chords, and so intwinc 

Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whether 
The voice or lute was most divine. 

So wondrously they went together :—- 

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has 

told. 

When two. that are link'd in one heavenly tie. 

With heart never changing, and brow never cold. 

Love on thro' all ills, and love on till they die I 

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; 
And, O, if there be an Elysium on earth 
It is this, it is this. 

'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words 
But that deep magic in the chords 
And in the lips, that gave such powei 
As music knew not till that hour 
At once a hundred voices said, 
" It is the mask'd .Arabian maid !" 
While Selim, who had felt the strain 
Deepest of any. and had lain 
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance. 

After the fairy sounds were o'er. 
Too inly touch'd for utterance, 

Now motion 'd with his hand for more : 

Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
Hut, O, the choice, what heart can doubt. 
Of tents with love, or thrones without .' 

Our rocks are rough, but .smiling there 
I The acacia waves her yellow hair. 
Lovely and sweet, nor lov'd the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
I The silvery-footed antelope 
As gfracefully and gayly springs 
As o'er the marble courts of kings. 

Then come — Thy Arab maid will be 
The lov'd and lone acacia tree, 
I The antelope whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loveliness. 

O, there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart. 
As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 



O; THE MARRIAGE. 



105 



As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs. 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before us then. 

So came thy every glance and tone 
When first on me they breath'd and shone ; 
Now, as if brought from other spheres. 
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years. 

Then fly with me, if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 

Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee — 
Fresh as the fountain underground. 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. 

But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid and rudely break 
Her worship'd image from its base. 
To give to me the ruined place ; — 

Then, fare thee well. — I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing sun begins to shine. 
Than trust to love so false as thine ! 

There was a pathos in this lay 

That, e'en without enchantmeoit's art. 
Would instantly have found its way 

Deep into Selim's burning heart ; 
But, breathing, as it did, a tone 
To earthly lutes and lips unknown, 
With every chord fresh from the touch 
Of Music's spirit — 'twas too much ! 

Starting, he dash'd away the cup. 
Which, all the time of this sweet air, 

His hand had held, untasted, up, 
As if 'twere fixed by magic there ; 
And naming her so long unnam'd, 
So long unseen, wildly exclaimed. 
"O Nourmahal! O Nourmahal! 

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
I could forget — forgive thee all. 

And never leave those eyes again !" 

The mask is off — the charm is wrought. 
And Selim to his heart has caught. 
In blushes, more than ever bright. 
His Nourmahal, his Harem's Light! 
And well do vanished frowns enhance 
The charm of every brighten'd glance ; 



And dearer seems each dawning smile 
For having lost its light awhile ; 
And happier now for all her sighs. 

As on his arm her head reposes, 
She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 

" Remember, love, the Feast of Roses.' 



THOMAS MOORE. 



— Fro»t ^^Laiia Rookh,^ 



! THE MARRIAGE. 

O ! the marriage, the marriage, 

With love and mo biiachail for me, 
The ladies that ride in a carriage 

Might envy my marriage to me ; 
For Owen is straight as a tower. 

And tender and loving and true ; 
He told me more love in an hour 

Than the Squires of the county could do. 
Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 

His hair is a shower of soft gold. 

His eye is as clear as the day. 
His conscience and vote were unsold 

When others were carried away ; 
His word is as good as an oath, 

And freely 'twas given to me ; 
O ! sure 'twill be happy for both 

The day of our marriage to see. 

Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 



His kinsmen are honest and kind, 

The neighbors think much of his skill. 
And Owen's the lad to my mind. 

Though he owns neither castle nor mill. 
But he has a tilloch of land, 

A horse, and a stocking of coin, 
A foot for the dance, and a hand 

In the cause of his country to join. 
Then, O ! the marriage, etc. 

We meet in the market and fair — 

We meet in the morning and night — 
He sits on the half of my chair. 

And my people are wild with delight. 
Yet I long through the winter to skim, 

Though Owen longs more, I can see. 
When I will be married to him. 

And he will be married to me. 

Then, ! the marriage, etc. 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



io6 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



COME TO ME DEAREST. 

Come to me dearest. I'm lonely without thee ; 
l).ay-time and niRht-time I'm thinking about thee; 
Night-time and day-time in dreams 1 behold thee. 
Unwelcome the wakinjj that ceases to f<)ld thee. 
Come to me. darliniif. my sorrows to lighten, 
Come in thy beauty, to bless and to brighten, 
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly. 
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. 

Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. 
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ; 
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold 

treasure, 
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure ; 
O Spring of my spirit ! O .May of my bosom ! 
.Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom — 
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. 
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. 

Figure that moves like a song thro' the even — 
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven — 
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother. 
Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each 

other ; 
Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple, 
And opening their eyes from the heart of a 

dimple — 

thanks to the Savior, that even thy seeming 
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming ! 

You have been glad when you knew I was glad- 
dened ; 
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? 
As octave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love, 
Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love ; 

1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing — 
You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing — 
I would not die without you at my side, love — 
You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 

Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, 
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow, 
.Strong, swift and fond as the words which I 

speak, love ; (cheek, love. 

With a song on your lip and a smile on your 
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; 
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ; 
Come to the arms which alone should caress 

thee ; [thee. 

Come to the heart which is throbbing to pre.ss 
JOSEPH BRENAN. 



COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken dear ! 
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is 

still here ; 
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast. 
.Vnd the heart and the hand all thy own to the 

last! 

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same. 
Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and 

shame .' 
I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art • 

Thou hast called me thy Angel, in moments of 
bliss, 

Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this— 

Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pur- 
sue, [too. 

And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there 

THOMAS MOORE. 



JANETTE'S HAIR 

Oh, loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 
Let me tangle a hand in your hair, my pet. 
For the world to me had no daintier sight 
Than your brown hair veiling your shoulders 
white. 
As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 

It was brown with a golden gloss, Janette, 
It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet, 
Twas a beautiful mist falling down to your wrist, 
'Twas a thing to be braided, and jeweled, and 
kissed — 
'Twas the loveliest hair in the world, my pet. 

My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled, and brown, my pet. 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your round white neck and your wealth of tress — 
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
Revealing the old, dear story, my pet — [sky. 

They were gray, with that chastened tinge of the 
When the trout leaps quickest to soap the fly. 
.•\nd they matched with your golden hair, 
my pet. 



WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 



107 



Your lips — but I have no words — Janette — 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet, 
When the spring is young, and the roses are wet 
With the dew-drops in each red bosom set, [pet. 
And they suited your gold-brown hair, my 

Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet, 
But, so gentle the bondage, my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, [pet. 
With my lingers enmeshed in your hair, my 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 
With your lips, your eyes, and your hair, my pet ; 
In the darkness of desolate years I moan. 
And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 
That covers your golden hair, my pet. 

CHARLES G. H.\LPINE. 



THE LITTLE WIFE. 

Frown not, my love ! ah, let me chase 

Away the shade of care that lies 
To-night so darkly on your face. 

And mist-like o'er your manly eyes. 
Ah, let me try the winning ways 

You said were mine — the angel art 
To pour at once ten thousand rays 

Of dancing sunlight on your heart ! 
My love, my life ! 
Your little wife 

Must bid these gloomy thoughts depart. 



When love was young and hopes were bright, 

I thought, 'midst all our dreams of bliss. 
That clouds might come like these to-night, 

And hours of sorrow such as this. 
And, then, I said, my task shall be 

To soothe his heart so fond and true. 
And he who loves me thus, shall see 

How much his little wife can do. 
My heart, my life, 
Your little wife 

Must bid you dream those dreams anew. 

Then let me lift those locks that fall 

So wildly o'er your lofty brow. 
And smooth, with fingers soft and small. 

The veins that cord your temples now. 



How oft, when ached your wearied head. 

From manly care, or thought divine. 

You've held me to your heart, and said 

You wanted love so deep as mine ! 

My own, my life ! 

Your little wife. 

That love is all her life's design. 



And here it is — a love as wild 

As e'er defied the world's control ; 
The fondness of a tearful child. 

The passion of a woman's soul, 
All mingled in my breast for thee. 

In one hot tide — I cannot speak : 
But feel my throbbing heart, and see 

Its brightness in my burning cheek — 
My love, my life ! 
Your little wife 

Must cheer you, or her heart will break. 

Ah, now the breast I found so cold. 

Grows warm within my close embrace ; 
And smiles as sweet as those of old 

Are stealing softly o'er your face ; 
And far within your brightening eyes 

My image, true and clear, I see ; 
Each shade of care and sorrow flies, 

And leaves your heart again to me — 
My love, my life ! 
Your little wife 

Its joy and light must ever be. 

TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 



WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE. 

Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him, 

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 
I'd chant my low love verses, stealing beside him. 

So faint and so tender his heart would but hear ; 
I'd pull the wild blossom from valley and high- 
land, [down ; 

And there at his feet would I lay them all 
I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island. 

Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. 

There's a rose by his dwelling — I'd tend the lone 

treasure, [should come ; 

That he might have flow'rs when the summer 

There's a harp in his hall — I would wake' its 

sweet measure, | 

For he must have music to brighten his home. 



io8 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Were I but his own wife, to jjuidc anil t" guard 

him. 

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear ; 

I'or every kind glance my whole life would award 

him, — 

In sickness I'd soothe and in sadness I'd cheer. 

My heart is a fount welling upward forever. 

When I think of my true love by night or by day ; 
That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river 

Which gushes forever and sings on its way. 
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to re- 
pose in. 

Were I but his own wife to win and to woo — 
Oh. sweet if the night of misfortune were closing. 

To rise, like the morning star, darling, for you! 

ELLKN DOWNING. 



THE IRISH WIFE. 

1 would not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Sa.xon land— 
1 would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand. 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands, or life — 
An outlaw — so I'm near her 

To love till death my Irish wife. 

O, what would bo this home of mine — 
A ruined, hermit-hauiited place. 

Hut for the light that nightly shines 
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face? 

What comfort in a mine of gold — 

What pleasure in a royal life. 

If the heart within lay dead and cold. 

If 1 could not wed my Irish wife .' 

I knew the law forbade the bans- 

1 knew my King abhorred her race — 
Who never bent before their clans. 

Must bow before their ladies' grace. 
Take all my forfeited domain. 

I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — 
T.ike knightly gear and noble name. 

And I will keep my Irish wife. 

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, 

My heaven by day. my stars by night— 

And twinlike truth and fondness lie. 
Within her swelling bosom white. 



My Irish wife has golden hair — 

Apollo's harp had once such strings- 
Apollo's .self might pause to hear 
Her bird-like carol when she sings. 

I would not give my Irish wife 

For all the dames of the Saxon land — 
I would not give my Irish wife 

For the Queen of France's hand. 
For she to me is dearer 

Than castles strong, or lands, or lif. , 
In death 1 would lie near her. 

And rise beside my Irish wife. 

THOMAS IiARCV McGEE. 



TO THE RECORDING ANGEL. 
Cherub of Heaven, that from thy secret stand 

Dost note the follies of each mortal here. 
Oh. if Eliza's* steps employ thy hand. 

Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear I 
Nor when she errs, thro' passion's w^ild extreme, 

Mark then her course, nor heed each trifling 
wrong ; 
Nor when her sad attachment is her theme. 

Note <lown the transports of her erring tongue. 
But when she sighs for sorrow not her own. 

Let that dear sigh to mercy's cause be given, 
And bear that tear to lier Creator's throne 

Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven. 

RICHARD URINSI.KY SHERIDAN. 



A NEW LIFE. 
Is it fancy.? Am 1 dreaming.? 
Do I tread the realms of faerx- — 
Do my hopings mock my wild heart with the 
I echoes of itself .' - 

Is my soul lit by the beaming 
I Of your radiant face, fair Lilla 
i Or am I witched, like pilgrim, by the lagoon's 
midnight elf.' 

Sweet words arc ringing o'er mc. 
And beside me and before me. 
Yet 1 fear to think them truthful, lest I wake to 
I find me wrong; 

And the bliss of the first minute, 
I When my heart caught them within it. 
j Would woo me to eternal sleep, to ever dream 
such song. 

• 'I'iif atithor'ri wife, previously Miss Liiilt'y. 



STEERING HOME. 



109 



God is loving — God is jealous. 
And we're every mortal fashioned 
In the likeness of the Moulder ! and our symjia- 
thies so bent ; 
Can my words be over zealous. 
Or my love be too impassioned ? 
No, I cannot outstrip nature, though I fail to be 
content. 

1 have h;ul my drc.iin of glory. 
And lia\-e quaffed my youthful chalice — 
What bitter dregs lay thickening beneath ii . 
starry foam ? 
And my life broke, like the story 
Of that oriental palace 
Whose magic marble fabric sunk, and left no 
trace of home. 

In my thought's dim lonely prison. 
Where I dwelt, a voice has risen, 
As the Angel's imto Peter, giving comfort, hope 
and cheer; 
.And so full of light 's the tremor, 
It now pulses through the dreamer. 
He'd bless the thought that chains him to have 
that angel near. 

Was your heart so sympathetic 
That it caught my words unspoken. 

As they welled up, seeking utterance, love-con- 
fused to very fear .' 
Was it you that said, " I love thee }" 
Was it I that said, " I love thee }" 

Or did we each the other's heart unburden to the 



When you twined your arms about me, 
.Saying life was dark without me — 

That I was the one comforter you prayed of 
God to give — 
That among the thousands lleeing 
Past, you knew me as //la/ being ; 

My heart, beneath the revelation, paused to say, 

There's a strange new life upon me. 
With a clarion-toned suffusion 
Of Joy, that cannot sound itself with words of 
mortal speech : 
But it is no fancy won me. 
No mere student-bred delusion ; 
'Tis thy vatic words that make a dual future in 
my reach. 



What a bounteously decreeing 
Gift hath love, when it receiving 
Love for love, transfigures us to thnigs ui 
dreamed before ! 
Now I've two lives in my being, 
Vou have two lives in your living. 
And yet we have but one dear life between 1 
evermore ! 

imiN sava<;f.. 



STEERING HOME. 

Far out beyond our sheltered bay, 
Against the golden evening sky, 

A brown speck rises, then away 
It sinks— it dwindles from my eye. 
Again it rises : drawing nigh. 
Its well-known shape grows sharp and clear- 
It is his bark, my Donal dear ! 

And oh ! tho' small a speck it be, 

Kind Heaven, that knows my hope and fear, 
Can tell the world it holds for me. 



My boat of boats is steering home — 
She bends and sways before the wind ; 

I cannot see the milky foam 
Beneath her bows and far behind. 
But oh! I know my love will find, 
Howe'er the evening current flows, 
Howe'er the rising night wind blows. 

The shortest cour.se his keel can dart 
From where he is to where he knows 

I wait to clasp him to my heart. 

Come, Donal, home ! See by my side 
Your little sons, impatient too. 

All day they loitered by the tide, 
And prattled of your boat and you. 
Into the glancing waves they threw 
Some little chips : the surges bore 
Their tiny vessels back to shore, 

Then would they clap their hands and say 
The first was yours : then o'er and o'er. 

Would ask me why you stayed away. 

Come, Donal. home ! The red sun sets ; 

Come to your children dear, and me ; 
And bring us full or empty nets, 

A scene of joy our hearth shall be. 

You'll tell me stories of the sea; 



no 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And I will sing the songs you said 
Were sweet as wild sea-music made 

By mermaids on the weedy rocks. 
When in some sheltered quiet shade, 

They sing, and comb their dripping locks. 

He comes I he comes! My boat is near; 
I know her mainsail's narrow peak. 

They haul her flowing sheets — I hear 
The dry sheeves on their pivots creak. 
He waves his liand ; I hear him s|)eak 
Come to the beach, my sons, with me: 
He'll greet us from her side; and we 

Shall meet him when he leaps to shore ; 
Then take him home, and bid him see 

Our brighter deck — our cottage floor. 

TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 



MY CONNOR. 



His eye is as black as the sloe. 

His skin is as white as its blossom ; 
He loves me, — but hate to the foe 

Has the uppermost place in his bosom. 
I forgive him. for sorrow unmixed 

His'child. like himself, should inherit. 
If hatred to chains had not fi.xed 

The strong kernel-stone in his spirit. 

The lark never soars but to sing. 

Nor sings but to soar ; but my Connor 
Surpasses the lark on the wing, 

Tho' walking the earth without honor. 
The fetters — the fetters awake 

Deep passionate songs that betoken 
The part and the place he will take 

When bonds are held up to be broken. 

He loves me more dearly than life, 

Yet would he forsake me to-morrow, 
And lose both his blood and his wife 

To free his loved island from sorrow ; 
And could I survive but to see 

The land without shackle upon her, 
I freely a widow would be, 

Tho' dearly 1 dote on my Connor. 

There is hope for the land where the ties 
'Twixt husband and wife have been reckoned 

As virtue the first, in strange eyes. 
Yet one, in their own, but the second I 



The sun never shines from the sky 
If the country be long in dishonor. 

With women— all braver than I — 
And men — all as brave as my Connor. 

JOHN D. FRASER. 



ROVING BRIAN O'CONNELL. 
" How do you like her for your wife, 

Roving Brian O'Connell.' 
A loving mate and true for life. 

Roving Brian O'Connell." 
' ■ She's as fit to be my wife 
As my sword is for the strife," 
Said the Rapparee trooper. 

Roving Brian O'Connell ! 

" Ne'er to Mabel prove untrue, 

Roving Brian O'Connell, 
For oh I she'd die for love of you, 

RoNing Brian O'Connell I" 
" Oh ! my wild heart never knew 
A flame so warm, so constant, too," 
Said the Rapparee trooper. 

Roving Brian O'Connell ! 

" Her father died as dies the brave. 

Roving Brian O'Connell ; 
Beneath the blow the Saxon gave. 

Roving Brian O'Connell." 
" Next we'll meet the -Sa.xon knave 
He'll get pike and gun and glaive !" 
Said the Rapparee trooper. 

Roving Brian O'Connell. 

" How will you your young bride keep. 

Roving Brian O'Connell ? 
The foeman's bands are ne'er asleep, 

Roving Brian O'Connell." 
'■ In our hold by Conail's steep 
Who dare make my Mabel weep ?" 
Said the Rapparee trooper. 

Roving Brian O'Connell. 

" This day in ruined church you stand, 

Roving Brian O'Connell ; 
To take your young bride's priceless hand. 

Roving Brian O'Connell." 
•■ Oh. my heart, my arm. my brand. 
Are for her and our own dear land !" 
Said the Rapparee trooper. 

Roving Brian O'Connell. 

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 



THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 



THE PEASANT'S BRIDE 

I was a simple country girl 

That loved the morning dearly ; 
My only wealth a precious pearl 

I found one morning early. 
I milked my mother's only cow. 

My kind poor lovin' Driinin ; 
I never envied then nor now 

The kine of richer women. 

The sun shone out in bonnie June, 

And fragrant were the meadows ; 
A voice as sweet as an Irish tune 

(I know it was my Thady's), 
Said, " Mary dear, I fain would stay. 

But Where's the use repining? 
I must away to save my hay 

Now while the sun is shining." 

Now Thady was as stout a blade 

As ever stood in leather, 
■With hook or scythe, with plough or spade. 

He'd beat ten men together ; 
He's just the man, thought I, for me, 

He is working late and early. 
He shall be mine if he is free, 

He takes my fancy fairly. 

I gave my hand, though I was young. 

And heart, too, like a feather. 
Our marriage song by the lark was sung 

When we were wed together ; 
And many a noble lord, I'm told. 

And many a noble lady, 
■Would gladly give a crown of gold 

To be like me and Thady. 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 

O ! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
■When I have seen your sunny eyes 

Grow moist with thought ; [mine 

And fondly hop'd. dear love, your heart from 

Its spell had caught ; 
And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 

But true, methought. 
Of how my life's long task would be, to make 
yours blessed as it ought. 



To learn to love sweet nature more 

For your sweet sake. 
To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — 

Its wonders break ; 
The sparkling spring in that bright face to see 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could 
still a grander music wake ! 

On some old shell-strewn rock to sit 

In autumn eves. 
Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air 

Hot autumn weaves : 
Or by that Holy 'Well in mountain lone. 

Where Faith believes 
(Fain would I b'lieve) its secret, darling wish 

True love achieves. 
Yet, O ! its Saint was not more pure than she to 
whom my fond heart cleaves. 

To see the dark, mid-winter night 

Pass like a noon, 
Sultry with thought from minds that teemed, 

And glowed like June : 
■Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pictured train 

Art's magic boon ; 
And music thrill with many a haughty strain, 

And dear old tune. 
Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to 
part had come sn soon. 

To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla's shore : 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds 

That shine and soar ; 
Tone's fiery hopes and all the deathless vows 

That Grattan swore ; 
The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — 
ah, me ! to sing no more. 

To search with mother-love the gifts 

Our land can boast — 
Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded slopes, 

Clare's iron coast ; 
Kildare, whose legions gray our bosoms stir 

■With fay and ghost ; 
Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — 

Lene's fairy host; 
With raids to many a foreign land to learn to 
love dear Ireland most. 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



And all those proud old victor-tields 

We thrill to name ; 
Whose metn"ries are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame ; [Keep, 

The Cairn, the Dun, the Kath, the Tower, the 

That still proclaim [deep, 

In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how 

Was Eire's fame, 
O ! we shall see them all. with her, that dear, dear 
friend we two have lov'd the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, 

!5y Dodder's stream ; 
The morning smile, that grew a fixed star 

With love-lit beam. 
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made one daily life diviner 
than a dream. 

For still to me, dear friend, dear Love, 

Or both — dear wife. 
Your image comes with serious thoughts. 

But tender, rife ; 
No idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife ; 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 

To walk through life. 
Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, 
true husband and true wife. 

CHARLES IJAVAN DUFFY. 



I THE BLIND MAN TO HIS BRIDE. 

When tirsl. beloved, in vanished hours, 

The blind man sought thy hand to gain. 
They said thy cheek was bright as flowers 

New freshened by the summer rain. 
They .said thy movements, swift yet soft. 

Were such as make the winged dove 
Seem, as it gently soars aloft. 

The image of repose and love. 

They told me, too. an eager crowd 

Of wooers praised thy beauty rare ; 
But that thy heart was all too proud 

A common lot to meet or share. 
Ah ! thine was neither pride nor scorn. 

But in thy coy and virgin breast 
Dwelt preference, not of passion bom, — 

The love that hath a holier zest ! 



Days came and went ; — thy .step 1 heard 

Pause frequent, as it passed me by : — 
Days came and went :- -thy heart was stirred. 

And answ-ered to my stifled sigh ! 
And thou didst make an humble choice. 

Content to be the blind man's bride. 
Who loved thee for thy gentle voice. 

And owned no joy on earth beside. 

And well by that sweet voice I knew 

(Without the happiness of sight) 
Thy years, as yet, were glad and few. 

Thy smile most innocently bright : 
I knew how full of love's own grace 

The beauty of thy form must be. 
And fancy idolized the face 

Whose loveliness I might not .see! 

Oh ! happy days were those, beloved ! 

I almost ceased for light to pine. 
When thro' the summer vales we roved. 

Thy fond hand gently linked in mine. 
Thy soft •■ good night " still sweetly cheered 

Th' unbroken darkness of my doom ; 
And thy "good morrow, love." endeared 

Each sunrise that returned in gloom ! 



At length, as years rolled swiftly on. 

They spoke to me of Time's decay — 
Of roses from the smooth cheek gone. 

Of ebon ringlets turned to gray. 
Ah I then I blessed the sightless eyes 

Which could not feel the deepening shade. 
Nor watch beneath succeeding skies 

Thy withering beauty faintly fade. 

/ saw no paleness in thy cheek. 

No lines upon thy forehead smooth, — 
But still the blind man heard thee spenk 

In accents made to bless and soothe. 
Still he could feel thy guiding hand 

As thro' the woodland wilds we ranged, — 
Still in the summer light could stand, 

And know thy heart and voice unchanged. 

And still, beloved, till life grows culd. 

We'll wander 'neath a genial sky. 
And only know that we are old. 

By counting happier years gone by : 
For thou to me art still as fair 

As when those happy years began. — 
When first thou camest to soothe and share 

The sorrows of a sightless man ! 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 



Old Time, who changes all below, 

To wean men gently for the grave, 
Hath brought us no increase of woe, 

And leaves us all he ever gave : 
For I am still a helpless thing. 

Whose darkened world is cheered by thee, 
And thou art she whose beauty's spring 

The blind man vainly yearned to see. 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



A MAN'S DEVOTION. 

Thou dear, false-hearted, beautiful frail child, 
Though when thine eyes go wandering o'er my 

face. 
Searching for true love-tokens, I can trace 
Sweet fraud in all their glances free and mild. 
And in thy lip's light smile I find not truth, 
Nor stedfast love in pressure of thy hand, 
Nor in thy love-words music meet to soothe 
A man's strong soul, clear as they run, and bland. 

Though I have read thy soul, child, through and 

through. 
And firm I am of will that no eye's glance 
Could lull me into any amorous trance; 
Yet doth my love spring evermore anew. 
I dare not cast thee from me — thou, so frail 
Who hast so trusted me, when I so long [fail, 
Have wrought and toiled for — lest thy foot should 
And thou be trodden by the brute-heart throng. 

God loves the worst of us. His book declares : 
Perchance 'tis god-like thus for men to clea\-c 
To weak things He hath fashioned, —not to lea\e 
The gem to perish for the crust it bears. 
Howe'er it be, come, dear one, to my arms : 
My summer glory in high Heaven is gained. 
If only through the rough seas and the storms 
Thou art borne back to God unscathed, unstained. 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 



But you have not fair Marie's tender voice. 
Or Constance' smile in which all hearts rejoice. 
Inconstant! Why ? 1 love the good in all. 

The good in one, and like the roving bee, 
(Are you has bleu, fair Helene, will you call 

My " roving bee " a threadbare simile.') 
I go from flower to fruit, and 1 love each. 
The faint-tinged rose-bud and the carmine peach. 



I love you for your eyes, O fair Helene, 
Your blue, blue eyes, so deep and limpid-clear, 

In whose deep depths are drowned many men. 
And for their deaths have you not shed a tear; 

And yet I love dear Rosalind's shy grace. 

And — can I help it ?— little Celia's face. 

I love the good in all, the good in one ; 

Too frank am I .' Can't help it ! 'tis my way. 
If you'll be Clytie, I will be the sun. 

And you can follow me about all day, 
And yet I'll smile on all and that will be 
Love universal, not inconstancv. 



Conceited.' How you wrong me, fair Helene, 
I'm not Apollo, and I know that well. 

But you're not Clytie ; if you were, why then 
I'd follow you. Good gracious ! whocouldtell 

The girl would get so mad ? A temper, too ! 

I'll never trust in meekest eyes of blue ! 

JIAURICE F. EGAN. 



DANGEROUS FRANKNESS. 

Inconstant? And why not, O fair Helene.' — 
You have the bluest eyes I've ever seen. 

Blue as the violets in that season when [green. 
The fields and hills are tinged with faintest 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 

When iirst I met thee, warm and young. 

There shone such truth about thee. 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied. 
Still clung with hope the fonder, 
.\nd thought, though false to all beside. 
From me thou couldst not wander. 
But go, deceiver, go ! 

The heart, whose hopes i-ould m;ike it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserx^es that thou :Miouldst break it. 



When every tongue thy follies nam'd, 

I fled the unwelcome story ; 
Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd, 

Some gleams of future glory. 



114 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



I still was true, when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart that now thy falsehood rends, 
Would then have bled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go ! 

Some day, perhaps thou'lt waken 
From pleasure's dream, to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed. 

No lights of age adorn thee : 
The few, who lov'd thee once, ha\e fled. 

And th6y,who flatter scorn thee. 
Thy midni^t cup is pledg'd to slaves. 

No genial ties in wreathe it ; 
The smiling there, like light on graves. 
Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 
Go — go — though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
?or all thy guilty splendor ! 

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 

When even those ties shall sever ; 
When thou wilt call, with vain regret. 

On her thou'st lost forever ; 
On her who, in thy fortune's fall 

With smiles had still receiv'd thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believ'd thee. 
Go — go— 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 

THOMAS MOORE. 



THE LOST MADONNA. 

O lost Madonna, young and fair ! 

O'er-leant by broad embraciiiij trees 
A streamlet to the lonely air 

Murmurs its meek low melodies; 
And there, as if to drink the tune. 

And 'mid the sparkling sands to play. 
One constant sunbeam still at noon 

.Shot thro" the glades its golden way. 

My lost Madonna, whose glad life 
Was like that ray of radiant air, 

The March-wind's violet scents blew rife 
When last we .sought that fountain fair. 



, Blithe as the beam from heaven arriving, 
I Thy hair held back by hands whose gleam 
I Was white as stars with night-clouds striving- 
I Thy bright lips bent and sipped the stream. 

Fair fawn-like creature I innocent 

In soul as faultless in thy form,— 
\s o'er the wave thy beauty bent 
j It blushed thee back each rosy charm 

How soon the senseless wave resigned 
' The tints, with thy retiring face. 
While glassed within my mournful mind 
Still glows that scene's enchanting grace. 

Ah, every scene, or bright or bleak. 

Where once thy presence round me shone. 
To echoing Memory long shall speak 

The Past's sweet legends, Worshipp'd One! 
The wild blue hills, the boundless moor. 

That, like my lot, stretched dark afar, 
.\nd o'er its edge, thine emblem pure. 

The never-failing evening star. 

My lost Madonna, fair and young! 

Before thy slender-sandalled feet 
The dallying wave its silver Hung, 

Then dashed far ocean's breast to meet ; 
And farther, wider, from thy side 

Than unreturning streams could rove, 
Dark Fate decreed me to divide — 

To me, my henceforth buried Love ! 

S'es ! far for ever from my side. 

Madonna, now for ever fair. 
To death of Distance I have died. 

And all has perished, but — Despair. 
Whether thy fate with woe be fraught, 

Or Joy's gay rainbow gleams o'er thee, 
['ve died to all but the mad thought 

That what was once no more shall be. 

'Tis well : — at least I shall not know 
How time or tears may change that brow ; 

Thine eyes shall smile, thy cheek shall glov/ 
I To me in distant years as now. 
i .\nd when in holier worlds, where Blame, 
j And Blight and .Sorrow, have no birth, 
' Thou'rt mine at last — I'll clasp the same 
i Unaltered -Angel known on earth. 



BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 



PART II. 

POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Yes, there is the dwelling ; the warmth of the year 

Still lives in each blossom that flourishes here ; 

Yes, there is the dwelling, but lonely it seems, 

As a land in which fancy stalks silent in dreams. 

The door-way that welcomed the guest to the hall, 

The creepers that whispered along the white wall ; 

Each sweet of the summer smiles tenderly there, 

But where are the dear hands that trained them ? oh, where ? 

Ah, true to remembrance ! Ah, true to the thought. 

Deep hid in my heart, of that love-Hghted spot 

Ay. there are the flower-bordered paths where we walked. 

And there are the groves where we listened and talked. 

All lonesomely blooming ! I look, but in vain 

For a symbol of light in the quiet domain ; 

The lawn where the children once gamboll'd is there. 

But where are the innocent faces? oh, where? 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD, 



CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 

I passed through the open gateway and under 

the bending trees ; 
The boughs of the stooping beeches stirred in 

the summer breeze ; 
The branching shadows fluttered as asleep on 

the lawn they lay, 
And up through the sunny meadow the avenue 

wound its way. 



I passed through the open gateway, and I was a 

child again : 
The grass and the leaves were sparkling in jewels 

of last night's rain ; 
But lo ! a turn in the pathway clouded my eyes 

with tears, 
And I stood and gazed with rapture on the home 

of my early years. 

The same— and yet I marvelled, for surely of 

old it stood 
Fronting a boundless meadow, on the skirts of 

a boundless wood ; 
With a stately hill behind it, from whose heights 

1 used to gaze 
To where the horizon bounded the world of my 

childhood's days. 

But the hill was a little hillock, the wood was a 

little grove; — 
'Twas only a little paddock through which I 

loved to rove ; 
I climbed, but the wizard fancy had somewhere 

lost his wand : 
I looked to the far horizon, but the world lay 

far beyond. 

Yet the grass had its wonted verdure, the sun 

had its wonted gold, 
The raindrops trembled and sparkled, as ever in 

days of old : 



And clouds were ne'er more fleecy, and never a 

fresher breeze 
Passed with a crisper murmur through depths 

of the greenwood trees. 

And I wondered if one of the dear ones, who 

left us and went his way 
Into the kingdom of twilight, misty and cold 

and gray, 
Could rise from the depths of silence and come 

for a little while, 
And hear the breezes rustle and see the green 

earth smile ; — 

Would the earth he had left behind him, the 

earth he had loved so well, 
That once was higher than heaven, and deeper 

than depths of hell — 
Seem now but a mote in the sunbeam, a drop in 

the water race, 
Its life the pulse of a moment, — a foothold its 

orb of space ? 

Would he learn that its ancient limits, now 

grown so narrow and near, 
Had veiled from imagination the skirts of a 

boundless sphere .' 
Would he look to the uttermost verges that ever 

his feet had trod, 
And still find far beyond them the world of the 

Heaven of God ? 

Yet perchance as he gazed around him a tear of 

regret might rise. 
And blot for a passing moment all else but earth 

from his eyes : 
He would murmur, " Oh God, I know thee in the 

least of thy works complete : 
It is all as of old I left it — and then it was, oh ! 

how sweet." 

EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



WINGS FOR HOME. 
My heart hath Uken wings for home : 

Away! away! it cannot stay. 
My heart hath tal«en wings for home, 
Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome 

Can stop iu way. 
My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away! 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way I 

little bird ! fly north with me, 

1 have a home beside the sea 
Where thou canst sing and play. 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away! 

My heart hath taken wings for home. 
But thou, O little bird ! wilt stay ; 

Thou hast thy young ones with thee here. 

Thy mate floats with thee through the clear 
Italian depths of day. 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away! 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 

Away! away! it cannot stay. 
One spring from Brunelleschi's dome. 
To Venice by the Adrian foam. 

Then westward be my way. 
My heart hath taken wings for home. 
Away! 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



AWAY FROM HOME. 
The sunset falls across the sea 

In flakes of golden light, 
While the good ship sails fast and free 

Into the silent night ; 
But while I watch with dazzled eyes 

The fading smile of day. 
My heart is with our eastern skies, 

And loved ones far away. 

I hear the rippling of the waves 

Like some sweet thought that thrills 
When the coo! evening breezes play 

On our New England hills , 
While at each murmured word that breaks 

.Across the tinkling spray. 
Some echoing chord of memory wakes 

For loved ones far away. 



And as the moonbeams" silver light 

Falls trembling from above, 
To shine across the wooded height 

And bless the home I love. 
I know what eyes will meet it there. 

What soul and lip will pray 
That God may hold in tender care 

Their loved one far away. 

O life is bright as heaven above 
When youth and hope are free ; 

earth is fair and full of love 
On land and shore and sea ; 

But earth would dim and hope depart 
If nearer day by day 

1 could not lead this longing heart 
To loved ones far away. 

.MARY K. BLAKE. 



j THE LOST HOME. 

Come sit, my son, beneath the shade where 

autumn winds are sighing ; 
I The shadows, creeping down the woods, an- 
nounce that day is dying ; 
And far the murky clouds outspread the 

floating flags of warning. 
Where AUeghanies' giant hills were seen at 
early morning. 

Behold, my son, the fertile fields where golden 

grain is swelling ; 
.\nd far away the crested pines thy brothe.-'s 

axe is felling ; 
.\nd yonder see our cheerful cot beside the 

mountain river — 
Thy father knows no master here but God 

the mighty Giver! 

In other days, when life was young, and hope 

was beaming o'er me, 
I loved my father's lowly cot— I loved the isle 

that bore me, 
; .\nd love it still, the dear old land : — tho' 
' ocean's waves divide us, 

j Still, still shall memor>''s magic spell bring its 
sweet shores beside us. 

I O land of sorrows, Innisfail ! the saddest, still 

the fairest ! 
I Tho' ever-fruitful be thy breast, tho' green the 

garb thou wearest, 



LONGING. 



119 



Tn vain- thy children seek thy gifts, and fondly 1 And cozy roof and porch and walls were cast I 

gather round thee ; j earth together. 

They live as strangers mid thy vales since dark And we, in woe, were forced to face the winters 

oppression bound thee. direful weather. 



My cherished home beside the glen, how could 
I cease to love thee } 

The yellow thatch was o'er thy walls, the beeches 
waved above thee ; 

Thy skies were like the seagull's wings, of pur- 
est snowy whiteness ; 

They woo'd the sun till round thy porch he flung 
his golden brightness. 



Alanna ! 'neath their native soil my parents* 

hearts are sleeping, — 
Across their lonely, grassy graves the shamrock 

leaves are creeping ; 
And we are here amidst these wilds, where 

tyrants ne'er can bind us, 
Witti lands as fertile — not so fair — as those we've 

left behind us. 



Methinks I still behold thy smoke ascend from 

yonder thicket, 
Methinks I see my aged sire beside thy open 

wicket. 
And hear my brothers' notes of mirth along the 

valleys ringing, 
Where maidens o'er the milking pails the rural 

songs are singing. 

.\round thy hearth, at day s decUne, arose the 

voice of gladness ; 
The fleeting years, as on they sped, flung in no ! 

seeds of sadness ; | 

And tho' the swelling tide of care oft rolled its 

wave beside us, | 

We clung in hope around our home — no perils ' 

could divide us. 

But ah ! at last dread Famine's breath brought 

direful desolation ; ! 

While tyrants bound their cruel laws around the 

dying nation. 
And spurned the wasted, withered poor, for help, 

for mercy crying, — 
The Saxons smiled with joy to hear that Celtic 

sons were dying ! 

My God ! it came — the fearful gale, against our 

happy dwelling; 
We strove and stood the shock awhile, tho' waves 

of woe were swelling ; 
Whilst, like a monster 'midst the deep, that loves 

the tempest's thunder. 
The lord who owned our lands desired to see us 

smking under. 

In vain we fed the hopes awhile ! in vain each 

dear endeavor ! 
My father's father's natal home was lost to us 

forever ; 



Yes, true, my son, thy father's soul has drunk 

the bitter potion ; 
Yet often 'midst these lonely woods he thinks 

with fond emotion. 
That yonder billows seek our isle— that gentle 

zephyrs fan her, — 
Oh, may her exiles see her too — to raise her 

drooping banner ! 

THOMAS AMBROSE BUTLER 



LONGING. 



■Ah, 



Waiting for the day." — McCarthy, 

I wish I was home in Ireland, 
For the summer will soon be there. 

And the fields of my darling sire-land 
To my heart will be fresh and fair. - 

Down where the deep Blackwater 

Glides on to its ocean rest. 
And the hills, with their green-clad bosoms. 

Roll up from the river's breast. 

To sit where the waters murmur 
To the birds in the bending trees, 

While the silver wavelets glitter. 
Stirred by the evening breeze ; 

To watch while the silent fisher 

Quivers his trembling line. 
Where the trout from the golden river 

Bound to the red sunshine. 

While the song of the distant milker 
Comes down with the evening cloud, 

And the mist from the lowland ^■aIleys 
Steals up like a snow-white shroud ; 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



To muse where the deep Blackwater. 

Like a courser, comes bounding in. 
With a rush, through the marble arches 

That span it by Cappoqum, 

When the dews on the woodlands glitter, 
And the rocks rise so tall and grand, 
' And when all living things are happy. 

But the sons of that hapless land. 

For they sit by the stranger's waters. 

As did Israel's sons of yore. 
And their harps are hung on the willows. 

And their hearts are crushed and sore. 
I 

As if from a plague-struck countr)'. 

Far off flies the sun-brown Gael, 
And his voice in the land that bore him 

Is sunk to a fainting wail. 

Like leaves in the autumn tempest. 

Or clouds in the wintry wind. 
Is he sweeping from green old Ireland, 

While the Tyrant remains behind ;— 

To waste his young life in sadness. 

And toiling from day to day. 
To long for a glimpse of Erm. 

Ere he sleep in his bed of clay 

I wish I was home in Ireland. 

For the flowers will soon be there. 
Clothing each vale and highland. 

And loading the perfumed air. 

For, in spite of the Saxon's scowlings. 

The land to my heart is dear. 
And to be but one day in Ireland 

Were worth a whole lifetime here. 

RICH.ARl) D.M.TOX WILLIAMS. 



THE WANDERER'S HOME. 

The river beneath me is flowing 
To its grave in the solemn sea. 

And the winds and the mists are blowing ; 

Yet my feverish cheek is glowing 

With burning thoughts of thee, my home. 
With burning thoughts of thee. 

All wearied around me are sleeping, 
But my heart all slumbers flee : 

For 1 thirk of a willow weeping. 

And the dead, that are silent keeping 
My sorrowing tears at parting. 
My early home, from thee. 



The roses are long ago withered 

That I plucked there by the sea. 
But the love of my soul forever 
Flows on like this ceaseless river. 
As deep and strong, for thee, my home. 
My Island Home, for thee. 

PATRICK CROM 



A LETTER FROM HOME. 
'Tis a dark rainy m(jrning. aiul droar\ , 
I I'm ve.x'd, till I'm ready to scold; 
Here I've sat, till my heart has grown weary. 

.•\nd my feet are benumbed with the colil. 
I have watched for an hour, ay, and better. 

Still thinking the postman would tome. 
And bring me a long, pleasant letter. 

.A darling long letter from home. 
Each morning my work I'm neglecting. 

Still thinking the postman will come ; 
Still watching, and always expecting 

A darling long letter from home ! 

There's much that I'd like to be knowing— 

And first, there's the health of poor Jane: 
And Lucy, if she has done growing, 

And has she grown handsome or plain : 
Does Willie get on with his schooling : 

Does Charley still play on the flute; 
Does Harry go on with his fooling. 

And writing love songs to Miss Foote "> 
My work every morning neglecting. 

Still thinking the postman will come — 
Still watching, and always expecting 

A darling long letter from home ! 

They wrote when dear Annie got married— 

'Twas a week after her wedding day,— 
Then they told me their plans had miscarried 

Concerning Miss Isabel Grey. 
How I wish I could only discover 

The name of Kate's tall, dashing beau : 
And I'd like to hear news of the lover 

Of poor little Bessie Munroe. 
Thus musing and gravely reflecting. 

And wishing the postman would come. 
Here I sit ever\' morning, expecting 

A darling long letter from home, 

There, there ! Rat-tat ! Well, I declare he 
Has letters for Mistress McKay : 

And surely— good gracious ! why, there, he 
Is coming right over this way ! 



FAREWELL. THOU SUNNY ISLE. 



Rat-tat ! Oh, I'm all in a tremble ! 

But really, I think it's too bad 
That people can't learn to dissemble, 

And not seem so vulgarly glad. 
Oh, nonsense ! — of course there are others 

As glad for the postman to come. 
With gossip from sisters and brothers. 

With darling long letters from home ! 

ELLEN FOKRESTER, 



THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 
When, tossed on the billows of life's dreary 

We drift o'er the waters afar, [ocean, 

And vainly look up to the storm-clouds above 

To catch the pale beam of a star, — [us 

When sorrow's dark veil, like the wing of the 

O'ershadows our path as we roam. [ tempest 
On: heart-cheering beacon shines out through 
the darkness — 

The glow of the fireside at home. 

Oft back to the light of the dear days departed 

Does memory tenderly turn. 
And for the sweet peace and contentment 
that crowned them. 

The heart must unceasingly yearn ; 
For then, when the night over valley and 

Had folded her mantle of gloom, [mountain 
Loved faces, so dear that their smiles were our 

Encircled the fireside at home, [sunshine 

Oh, friends long departed, oh, bright days 
long vanished. 

When back to the years that are fled '"'• 

We turn, from the joys and the woes of the 

Tothinkof the loved and the dead, [present, j 
The light wing of Fancy with fair)' touch | 
brushes 

The dust from the doors of the tomb. 
And once more unites us — the dead and the 

Around the bright fireside at home, [absent. 

Oh. when the dim twilight of death isapproach- 

Our wearisome journey near done, [ing. 
And faintly and cold o'er our closing eyes 
gleameth 

The pale beams of life's setting sun, — 
Then, Father Almighty, across the dark valley, 

Its doubts and its shadows and gloom. 
We pray that the liarht of Thy love and Thy 

May guide us at last to our home, [mercy 

MARY A. M^MULLIN. 



A QUIET HOUSE. 
My house is quiet now — so still ! 

All day I hear the ticking clock ; 
The hours are numbered clear and shrill ; 

Outside the robin's chirp and trill ; 

My house is quiet now — so still ! 

But silence breaks my heart. I wait ! 
And waiting, yearn for call or knock ; 

To hear the creaking of the gate. 
And footsteps coming soon or late — 
The silence breaks my heart. I wait. 

All through the empty house I go. 

From hall to hall, from room to room ; 

The heavy shadows spread and grow. 
The startled echoes mock me so, 
As through the empty house I go. 

Ah, silent house ! If I could hear 
Sweet noises in the tranquil gloom — 

The joyous tumult, loud and near. 
That vexed me many a happy year — 
Ah, silent house, if I could hear! 

Ah, lonely house, if once — once more. 
My longing eyes might see the stain 

Of little footprints on the floor. 
The sweet child-faces at the door. 
Ah, blessed Heaven — but once — once more ! 

My house and home are very still ; 
I watch the sunshine and the rain ; 

The years go on ... . perhaps Death will 
Life's broken promises fulfil — 
My house, my home, my heart are still ! 

MARY AINGE DE VERE. 



FAREWELL, THOU SUNNY ISLE. 

Farewell to thee, thou sunny isle ! 

The waves around our bark are dancing. 
Our snowy sail, unfurled the while. 

In the noonday beam is brightly glancing. 

Yet ere we sail. 

Once more we hail 
The land where first the sun shone o'er us ; 

Where'er we rove. 

With looks of love 
We'll turn to thee — the land that bore us ! 

Farewell to thee, who from our eyes 

Are shrouded by the tears that blind us ; 

Each passing breeze shall waft our sighs 
To those we love — and leave behind us ! 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Yet though we roam 

Far. far from home, 
Whatever storms may hover o'er us,— 

Where'er we rove, 

With thoughts of love 
We turn to thee— the land that bore us ! 

Our home ! — oh, still that magic name 
Shall breathe a holy spell around us. 
And make us, e'en 'mid shouts of fame, 
Sigh for the early links that bound us ! 

The flowery ties. 

The bright young eyes 
That still in dreams seem watching o'er us ; 

Oh ! while we rove. 

The forms we love 
Still people thee— the land th?t bore us ! 

Tiie storms may rise, the winds may roar, 

Triumphant still we sail thro' danger, 
So we behold the land once more 
That welcomes back the weary stranger. 

The port we hail. 

Furl up our sail. 
While those we love stand mute before us ; 

No more we rove, — 

With joyful love 
We leap to thee— the land that bore us ! 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



THE HAPPY VILLAGE. 

As often I pass the roadside. 

When wearily falls the day, 
1 turn to look from the hill-top 

At the mountains far away. 

The red sun through the forests 
Throws hither his parting beams. 

And far in the quiet valley. 
The happy village gleams. 

There the lamp is lit in the cottage 
As the husbandman's labors cease. 

And 1 think that all things are gathered 
Anil folded in twilight peace. 

But the sound of merry voices 
Is heard in the village street, 

While pleased the grandame watches 
The play of the little feet. 



And at night to many a I 

The rosy children come ; 
To tales of the bright-eyed fairies 

They listen and are dumb. 

There seems it a joy forever 

To labor and to learn. 
For love with an eye of magic 

Is patient to discern. 

And the father blesses the mother. 
And the children bless the sire. 

And the cheer and joy of the hearthstone 
Is as light from an altar fire. 

O flowers of rarest beauty 

In that green valley grow ; 
And whether 'twere earth or heaven 

Why shouldst thou care to know ? 

Save that thy brow is troubled. 

And dim is thy helpmate's eye 
And graves are green in the valley. 

And stars are bright in the sky. 

D. KANE O'DONNELL. 



THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE. 
O, many and many a time 

In the ilim old days, 
When the chapel's distant chime 

Pealed the hour of evening praise, 
I've bowed my head in prayer; 

Then shouldered scythe or bill, 
.And travelled free of care 

To my home across the hill. 
Whilst the blue, blue smoke 
Of my cottage in the coom. 
Softly wreathing. 
Sweetly breathing. 
Waved my thousand welcomes home. 

For oft and oft I 've stood. 

Delighted in the dew. 
Looking down across the wood. 

Where it stole into my view, — 
Sweet spirit of the sod. 

Of our own Irish earth. 
Going gently up to God 

From the poor man's hearth. 
O. the blue, blue smoke, 

Of my cottage in the coom. 
Softly wreathing. 
Sweetly breathing. 

Waved my thousand welcomes home. 



SONG OF THE PIONEERS. I 23 


But I hurried simply on, 


Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 


When Herself from the door 


And had a joyous flow, 


Came swimming like a swan 


In the days when we were Pioneers, 


Beside the Shannon shore ; 


Fifty years ago ! 


And after her in haste, 




On pretty, pattering feet, 
Our rosy cherubs raced 

Their daddy dear to meet ; 
While the blue, blue smoke 


The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase. 

The captured elk or deer ; 
The camp, the big bright fire, and then 




The rich and wholesome cheer :— 


Of my cottage in the coom. 

Softly wreathing, 

Sweetly breathing. 
Waved my thousand welcomes home. 


The sweet sound sleep at dead of night. 

By our camp-fires blazing high,- 
Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 




Or the panther springing by. 


But the times are sorely changed 


Oh, merrily passed the time, despite 


Since those dim old days. 


Our wily Indian foe, 


And far, far I've ranged 


In the days when we were Pioneers, 


From those dear old ways. 


Fifty years ago ! 


And my colleen's golden hair 




To silver all has grown. 


We shunned not labor ; when 'twas due 


And our little cherub pair 


We wrought with right good will ; 


Have children of their own ; 


And for the homes we won for them 


And the black, black smoke 


Our children bless us still. 


Like a heavy funeral plume. 


We lived not hermit lives, but oft 


Darkly wreathing, 


In social converse met ; 


Fearful breathing. 


And fires of love were kindled then. 


Crowns the city with its gloom. 


That burn as warmly yet : 


But 'tis our comfort sweet. 


Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 


Through the long toil of life. 
That we'll turn with tired feet 


Pursued its constant flow. 
In the days when we were Pioneers, 


From the noise and the strife, 


Fifty years ago! 


And wander slowly back 




In the soft western glow. 


We felt that we were fellow-men. 


Hand in hand in the track 


We felt we were a band 


That we trod long ago, 


Sustained here in the wilderness 


Till the blue, blue smoke 


By Heaven's upholding hand. 


Of our cottage in the cooni. 


And when the solemn Sabbath came. 


Softly wreathing. 


Assembling in the wood. 


Gently breathing, 


We lifted up our hearts in praver 


Waves our thousand welcomes home. 


To God the only good. 


ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 


Our temples there were earth and sky ; 




None other did we know 




In the days when we were Pioneers, 
Fifty years ago ! 




SONG OF THE PIONEERS. " 




.V song for the early times out West, 


Our forest-life was rough and rude. 


And our green old forest home, 


And dangers closed us round ; 


Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 


But here, amid the green old trees, 


Across the bosom come : 


Freedom was sought and found. 


A song for the free and gladsome life 


Oft thro' our dwellings wintry blasts 


In those early days we led. 


Would rush with shriek and moan ; 


With a teeming soil beneath our feet. 


We cared not : — tho'they were but frail. 


And a smiling heaven o'erhead ! 


We felt they were our own ! 



124 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Oh, free and manly lives we led, 

Mid verdure or micf snow. 
In the days when we were Pioneers, 

Fifty years ago ! 

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS. 

Here in my chamber alone 1 sit. 

Watching the firelight s radiant glow. 
While the musical chimes of the Christinas bells 

Come solemnly pealing across the snow. 
I know 'tis the season of mirth and love. 

When yule-logs crackle and hearts beat high. 
And pleasure's soft light shines calmly sweet. 

Like a rainbow arch in the evening sky ; 
But my heart is dimmed by a blotch of cloud. 

Like a face half hid by a mourner's hand. 
As I think and think of the empty chairs 

By the Christmas hearths of the olden land. 

Here 'tis a cot in the Golden Tale, 

There 'tis a garret in Dublin town, 
Here 'tis a hut 'ncath an Antrim cliff. 

Or a home where the Moy goes dancing down ; 
No matter what threshold our footsteps cross, 

In each and all it is Christmas night. 
The holly-bough shines in the ingle-nook, 

And the feast-board glows in the fagot's light ; 
But by every hearth there's an empty chair, 

Whose shadow falls dark on the Christmas tree; 
And at every board there's a vacant place 

For some loved one over the black-waved sea. 

Ah me I if the zephyrs that sweep to-night 

From Ireland's valleys on viewless wing 
Could bear us what blessings and sighs they hear, 

What a treasure of heart-born love they'd bring! 
Prayers for the thousands whose only dirge 

Was the seaman's shout or the ship-bell's chime. 
Prayers and blessings for all who left 

The well-known home for the foreign clime. 
God's peace be with them, our island kin !— 

Their hearts come to us, ours bound to them. 
And the love that is binding us each to each. 

We'd abate for no earthly diadem ! 

O, solacing bells of the Christmas time. 
Pealing and pealing across the snow. 

There's a whisper of hope in your every chime 
For the sad and the travel-stained here below I 



In the years that the womb of the future holds. 

Let us hope and pray that a vacant place 
By the Christmas hearth or the festive board. 

Will little be known among Ireland's race. 
That hope to the heart of the exiled one 

Is as light to the lone on a darkened sea. 
For its happy and ample fulfillment means 

A race redeemed and a land made free ! 

JOHN LOCKB. 



CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. 



Oh 



these Christni.'is limes, niavourneen. are not 

like the times of old, 
When the light of love shone softly, and our 

pulses felt no cold ; 
When the laughter of the young hearts round 

the hearth rang merrily ; — 
Now the laughter and young hearts all are gone, 

ashtore machree. 

Methinks I see our darling Kate, her blue eyes 

fi.\ed on mine ; 
And dark haired Patrick resting soft his little 

hand in mine ; 
Methinks I hear brave Owen's voice, and Brian's 

free and gay. 
With soft cheeked Eily's mingling in the holy 

Christmas lay. 

Dreams ! dreams ! to-night the ancient hearth no 
kindly look doth wear. 

There is snow upon the threshold stone and 
chilliness everj'whcre ; 

No swell of rushing voices pours the holy Christ- 
mas lay. 

The young hearts, and the merry hearts, nia- 
vourneen, where are they ? 

Ah I blue-eyed Kate and Patrick Dhu, long, 
long have found their rest. 

Where Shruel's silent churchyard looks across 
the Inny's breast ; 

And, Eily, thy young heart lies cold and pulse- 
less 'neath the sea 

Full many and many a Christmas tide, alanna 
bawn machree. 

And by Potomac's blood-tinged wave brave 
Owen nobly fell. 

My gallant boy ! they say he fought right glori- 
ously and well ; 



SONG OF ALL-HALLOW'S EVE. 



125 



And Brian's voice is hushed in death, where blue 
Australian streams 

Fill with their youthful melodies the exile's glow- 
ing dreams. 

Asthore, asthore, beside the light our faces shine 

alone ; 
But they are clustered with the stars before the 

eternal throne : 
With St. Patrick and St. Bridget and the angels 

robed in white, 
They sing the old remembered strains, their 

Christmas hymn to-night. 

Old love ! old love ! His will be bless'd that left 

e'en you to me 
To keep my heart from bursting with the wild, 

wild memory. 
That soothing glance, mavourneen, speaks of 

Christmas times to come. 
When the scattered hearts shall meet for aye in 

God's eternal home, 

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 



SONG OF ALL-HALLOW'S EVE. 

The year is growing aged and dull ; 

Late rise the days, and weary soon ; 
With morning fog the fields are full. 

And fall the leaves with evening's moon. 
Shut to the doors, and gather nigher. 
Our summer time is scarcely past ; 
Beside the fire, with cup and lyre. 
We'll soon outsing the winter's blast. 
Hour upon hour 
Over our bower. 
Shining and swift, departs, departs ; 
Time to-night 
Will quicken his flight. 
To follow a while our bounding hearts. 



Lo ! Autumn passed, with face of care, 

This eve along the dusky road ; 
Nut-clusters tinkled in his hair, 

And rosy apples formed his load. 
All friendless, by the withered thorn 

The kind brown spirit lingered long — 
Log-heap the fire, sing higher, higher. 

And cheer his ghost with light and song. 



Hour upon hour 

Over our bower, 
Mellow and mild, departs, departs ; 

Time to-night 

Must quicken his flight 
To follow a while our bounding hearts. 

Send round the wine of summer earth. 

And speed the winter's twilight game ; 
Bend, maidens, round the glowing hearth. 

And guess at lovers by its flame ; 
Soon Love shall ring from yonder spire 

The joy each fairy-nut foretells ; 
Love strike the lyre, love guard the fire. 
And tune our lives like marriage bells. 
Hour upon hour 
Over our bovver. 
Shining and swift, departs, departs ; 
Time to-night 
Has quickened his flight, 
To follow a while our bounding hearts. 

Smile, silvered Age, upon the band 

Of joyous children grouped below — 

Bright travelers from the morning land 

Where we have wandered years ago. 

The dawning heart to heaven is nigher 

Than wisdom's snowiest brow can soar.— 
Sing to the lyre, circle the fire. 

And mingle with your youth once more ! 
Hour upon hour 
Over our bower. 
Shining and swift, departs, departs, 
Time to-night 
Has quickened his flight 
To follow a while our bounding hearts. 



Loud on the roof the tempest moans, 

And mirth would last as loud and long, 
But yonder bell, in trembling tones. 

Has blended with our ceasing song. 
The children drowse, the girls retire. 

To dream of love and fortune's smile. 
Farewell, old lyre and friendly fire. 
And happy souls, farewell a while. 
Hour after hour 
Over our bower, 
Mellow and mild, departs, departs ; 
Now Time will sing 
Beneath his wing 
A soothing song to our dreaming hearts. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



126 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



FATHER DAN. 



In the fairy bark of memor>', by love's frasjrant 
breezes sped, 
I sail once more across the wondrous main. 
To the hills of holy Ireland, from view forever 
fled. 
And boyhood's halo beams o'er me again. 
Oh, backward I am wafted to the fair and happy 
time 
When lijfhtly o'er the summer dells I ran. 
As rose to heaven, soft and clear, the silv'ry 
matin chime, 
To answer early Mass for Father Dan. 



REMINISCENCES. 
I remember, I remember, when Sabbath morn- 
ing rose, 
We changed, for garments neat and clean, our 

soiled week-day clothes ; 
And yet no gaudy finery, nor brooch nor jewel 

rare. 
But hands and faces looking bright, and 

smoothly parted hair. 
'Twas not the decking of the head, my father 

used to say. 
But careful clothing of the heart, that graced 

that holy day, — 
'Twas not the bonnet nor the dress: and I bt- 

lieve it true ; 
But those were very simple times, and I wa- 

simple too. 



I'll ne'er forget his greeting as I reached the 
vestry door, 
1 lis mellow toned " good morning, child," to me ; 
And oh! while lowly kneeling on the plain and 
snow-white floor, 
I lis kindly face I dearly loved to see I 
I cm-ied not the wealthiest or proudest in the Its papered wall, its polished floor, and mantel 



I remember, I remember, the parlor where wi 
met; 



land. 
When I donned my surplice white, and black 

soutane, 
And knelt before that altar, in its simple beauty 

grand, 
To answer early Mass for Father Dan. 

1 see the little chapel where it stood upon the hill. 
And its cross that could be seen for miles 
around. 
And ever>' dear and charming spot remains in 
memory still — 
F..-ich sylvan slope, each fertile stretch of 
ground. 
When the strong frieze-coated peasantry awaited 
at the door. 
,\nd whiled the time away ere Mass began, 
Vntil the good old pastor came, with kindness 
beaming o'er — 
Then fond each greeting given to Father Dan. 

I wonder if he thinks of me as in that eve gone by, 

When he to me his parting blessing gave, 
.\nd supplicated fervently the aid of Him on high 

To guard my path across the dangerous wave ? 
I'll t'link of him, I'll honor him, as in that sun- 
bright lime. 

When lightly o'er the summer dells I ran, 
While on the fragrant breezes floated morning's 
silv'ry chime, 

To answer early Mass for Father Dan ! 

EUGENE GEARY. 



black as jet ; 
'Twas there we raised our morning hymn, 

melodious, sweet and clear. 
And joined in prayer with that loved voice 

which we no more may hear. 
Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to thr 

house of God 
How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully we 

trod I— 
1 see e'len now its low, thatched roof, its floor 

of trodden clay. 
.■Xnd our old pastor's timeworn face, and wig 
I of silver gray. 

I remember, I remember, how hushed and 
] mute we were. 

While he led our spirits up to God in heartfelt. 

melting prayer \ 
To grace his action or his voice, no studied 

charm was lent. — 
Pure, ferx'ent. glowing from the heart, so to 

the heart it went. 
Then came the sermon, long and quaint, but 

full of gospel truth ; 
Ah me ! I was no judge of that, for 1 was then 

in youth ; 
But I have heard my father siiy. and well my 

father knew. 
In it was meat for full-grown men. and milk 

for children too. 

I remember. I remember, the morning sermon 
done. 



ON A CHILD AT PLAY. 



An hour of intermission came — we wandered 
in the sun ; 

How hoary farmers sat them down upon the 
. daisy sod. 

And talked of bounteous Nature's stores, and 
Nature's bounteous God ; 

And matrons talked, as matrons will, of sick- 
ness and of health, — 

Of births, and deaths, and marriages, of 
poverty and wealth ; 

And youths and maidens stole apart, within 
the shady grove. 

And whispered 'neath its spreading boughs 
perchance some tale of love ! 

I remember, I remember, how in the church- 
yard lone, 
I've stolen away and sat me down beside the 

rude gravestone. 
Or read the names of those who slept beneath 

the clay-cold sod. 
And thought of spirits glittering bright before 

the throne of God ! 
Or where the little rivulet danced sportively 

and bright, 
Receiving on its limpid breast the sun's 

meridian light, 
I've wandered forth, and thought if hearts 

were pure like this sweet stream 
How fair to heaven they might reflect heaven's 

uncreated beam ! 

I remember, I remember, the second sermon 

o'er. 
We turned our faces once again to our paternal 

door; 
And round the well-filled, ample board sat no 

reluctant guest. 
For exercise gave appetite, and loved ones 

shared the feast ! 
Then ere the sunset hour arrived, as we were 

wont to do. 
The catechism's well-conned page, we said it 

through and through ; 
And childhood's faltering tongue was heard 

to lisp the holy word, 
And older voices read aloud the message of 

the Lord. 

Away back in these days of yore — perhaps the 

fault was mine — 
I used to think the Sabbath day, dear Lord, 

was wholly thine ; 
When it behooved to keep the heart, and 

bridle fast the tongue ; 



But those were very simple days, and I was 

very young. 
The world has grown much older since those 

sun-bright Sabbath days, — 
The world has grown much older since, and 

she has changed her ways : 
Some say that she has wiser grown ; ah me ! it 

may be true. 
As wisdom comes by length of years, but so 

does dotage, too. 

Oh. happy, happy years of youth, how beauti- 
ful, how fair. 

To Memory's retrospective eye your trodden 
pathways are ! 

The thorns forgot — remembered still the fra- 
grance and the flowers, — 

The loved companions of my youth, and sunny 
Sabbath hours ! 

And onward, onward, onward still, successive 
Sabbaths come. 

As guides to lead us on the road to our eternal 
home; 

Or like the visioned ladder once to slumbering 
Jacob given. 

From heaven descending to the earth, lead 
back from earth to heaven ! 

JANE L. GRAY. 



ON A CHILD AT PLAY. 

On yester eve I saw at play 

A child — 'twas fancy's precious prize-, 
The lovely light of gladness lay 

Couched softly in his gleaming eyes. 
Come, gaze on me, my pretty child, 
And smile again as thou hast smiled 
Such happiness alive in thee 
Makes me a child again to see. 

Alone among the flowers he lies. 
As fair as they, as coyly wild — 

" To droop above thy vernal eyes 
I'll set them in thy bonnet, child!" 

A painful throb is in my heart, 

I will not bid it to depart ; 

I never knew what 'twas to grieve 

With pleasure, till I saw this eve. 

The primrose flower of life is here. 
The rapturous promise of its spring; 

Time touches it with gentle fear 
To harshly touch so soft a thing. 



128 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



So bright a flower was never set 

In Flora s fading coronet ; 

" Alas ! must thou, too, fade, my child ? — ' 

The boy looked up at me and smiled. 

Sweet spirit newly come from heaven. 

With all the God upon thee still. 
Beams of no earthly light are given 

Thy heart even yet to bless and fill. 
Thy soul, a sky whose sun has set, 
Wears glory hovering round it yet ; 
And childhood's .-ne grows sadly bright 
Ere life hath deepened into iii^ht .' 

WILLI.^.M ARCHER BUTLER. 



CHILDHOOD'S PROMISE. 

The lowliest peasant's babe is nol)Iy born ; 
Smiles like a princess ; waves its tiny arms 
With sparkling flexure Art can but admire. 
Exulting mother-ward. As years unfold. 
Have you not seen beneath the ragged thorn. 
That with scant shadow cools the wayside bank, 
The picture of a child .'. Its pretty limbs 
Ennobling Poverty, as day's fresh spring 
Glints on a russet heath ; its full, clear brow. 
That breaks a tumbling sea of golden curls, 
Bowed o'er its plans of shells or pottery. 
With such a fixture of the studious eye, 
And such a pause of motion as reveals 
' A mind conceiving, or a spirit stirred 
I With self-discovery, — as an infant first 

Stares at its fingers, wondering what they be. 



And is that fairy vision, whicli reveals 
In every gesture, attitude, the light 
That glows as in some lantern's pictur'd glass 
Within the frame it quickens, but a lump 
Of puddled clay that waits the graver's tool ? 
Or a true fragment of the broken crown. 
Ere trodden under foot of man — of swine .' 
What is the diamond coated o'er with clay 
But common soil ? The sun may shine upon it. 
But it cannot shine back upon the sun ; 
But cleanse it— give the setter's patient skill 
To face and educate its sparkling gifts, — 
And, lo ! 'tis fitted to converse with Heaven. 
All tremulous in ecstasy of light. 

H. V. STOKES. 



FLORENCE, MY CHILD. 
1. 

The little footsteps pattering near, 

The little treble voice. 
Strike to my soul a sense of fear. 

When I would fain rejoice. 

The pretty smile, the ringing laugh. 

The peachy cheek to mine ; 
The lips whose little kiss I quaff 

More eagerly than wine ; 

The childish griefs which quickly crowd 

Behind some willful deed — 
The shadows of a summer cloud 

Upon a summer mead ; 

The wayward ways, the baby talk. 
The sudden searching glance ; 

The gallant strivings made to walk. 
And checked by every chance ; 

All bring a sense of grief and joy. 

Of blessing and of ban. 
Because I see myself a boy. 

And what I am— a man. 

Wide are the future's gates unrolled. 

And visions sad and proud 
Come forth, — some clad in robes of gold, 

Some shrouded with a shroud. 

A host of hopes come forth v^'ith them, 

And then a host of fears ; 
For though I see the diadem, 

I .see the victor's tears. 

And when the night begins to fall, 
I muse, with brain o'erwrought. 

Until the shadows on the wall 
Seem mockeries of thought. 



II. 

In those dark eyes a genius lies. 

A glory and a might ; 
As sleeps within the evening skies 

The coming morning's light. 

I recognize the power sublime — 

The synonym of fame — 
Which on the granite walls of Time 

Can cut a deathless name. 



THE HOUSE OF THE CHILDREN. 



129 



I note the glorious strength concealed. 

Which signalizes life, 
The will to clutch and skill to wield 

A weapon in the strife. 

Those little hands, like lily leaves, 

Are white and frail to view ; 
But, oh ! what work a hand achieves, 

If but the heart be true ! 

May not its wondrous labor fill 

The temple and the mart 
With symbols of its thought and skill. 

And miracles of art .' 

My Child, that forehead pale and wide 

Contains a busy brain ; 
Oh ! may it know the thinker's pride. 

But not the thinker's pain ! 

JOSEPH BRENAN. 



MY DARLING CHILD. 
AUana fair, your dark brown hair. 
Rests tangling on your neck so rare ! 
Our Irish skies are in your eyes 

My Eileen oge machree / * 
Where'er I roam, o'er land and foam. 

With me, for aye, abides one thought : 
That God, from out His heart of love. 

For me a joy has wrought. 

J/rt viel astore, my darling child. 
Allana blian — so fair and mild ! 
Come to my kisses and my heart. 
My Ei7een oge mackrec .' 

Allana dear, you're ever near. 

You bring me hope, and love and cheer ! 

My Irish fay, my bloom of May, 

My Eileen oge machree .' 
\Vhere'er I stray, by night or day, 

I know God's angels watch your sleep. 
And Ireland's fairies thronging round 

Sweet vigils ever keep. 

Ma viel asiore, my darling child. 
Allana b/tanso fair and mild ! 
Come to my kisses and my heart. 
My Eileen oge machree! 

CHARLES P. O'CONOR. 



THE HOUSE OF THE CHILDREN. 



' Young Ellen of ray heart. 



O, the little Western cottage, set around with 
grasses greenly ! 
Tall hills rising high behind it, wide road 
sweeping white before ; 
Shadowed by young trees that ripple up the cool 
west wind serenely, 
As the spring day breaks in sunshine on that 
far Missouri shore. 

Skies are blue and bright above it. I can see 
the high brown rafter 
Warmed to gold beneath their shining, as the 
fragrant day grows on ; 
While ripe prairies run in yellow from swift winds 
that follow after. 
And the corn ope's blue eyes coyly, to the 
kisses of the sun. 

There is song of wren and robin ; stir of grass 
and roll of river ; 
There is sound of young leaves swaying to the 
rhythmic beat of breeze. 
But the music that is sweetest is of notes that 
ripple ever 
From the childish laughter ringing in the 
shadow of the trees. 

Hand in hand in fairy circle ! blithe as birds, no 
bees more busy- 
Young bough whitely o'er them budding, melts 
its snow on their warm hair. 
Round and round the dance goes gayly. till tlie 
little heads grow dizzy. 
Bells of childish laughter tinkling down the 
silence of the air. 

O quartet, that rises careless of all tune and time 
and measure. 
There was sweeter music never, nor a chord 
of notes more true : 
And the singers fair and famous, whom we ten- 
der, toast and treasure. 
Were but tyros, wee musicians, were they side 
by side with you ! 

For their purest strains and strongest, are but 
broken chords completed 
Where frail nature seeks perfectness from the 
molding hand of Art ; 
But the music of the children is the echo, soft 
repeated, 
Of the song that God and angels sing within 
the spotless heart ! 



ISO 



POEMS or NOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Ah! the song sin oft may silence, ere their 
earthly way be wended — 
Yet, O angels, shield them ever, till they rest 
in sunny skies! 
True as mother who leaves cradle not when 
slumber song is ended. 
But stays on to guard the dreaming she has 
summoned to sweet eyes. 

Soft spring sun, shine bland and brightly ; winds 
blow warm, and stars serenely 
Crown by night the rafters rising where a road 
sweeps white before ; 
Where fair children Ilit like (lowers thro' the young 
spring grass grown greenly 
Round the little Western cottage on the far 
Missouri shore ! 

MINN'IE GILMORE. 



ABSENT CHILDREN. 

They were simple of speech and mind, 
Peasant mothers and neighbors kind, 
Met in the shade of a leafy lime. 
At the sweet midsummer's twilight time ; 
When labor rests and memories wake. 
When hearts grow sad for the absents" sake. 
Thus of their absent ones they spake : 

One said, " My child is far at sea ; 

He loved the wild waves more than me — 

More than his native vale and cot — 

And chose the roving sailor's lot. 

Some, but they might have feigned, foretold 

That he was born for a captain bold. 

And would come back with fame and gold. 

" But many a day and many a year, 

Is the sound of the deep sea in mine ear ; 

And many a stormy winter's night 

I wake with a strange and sore affright : 

For the drowning cries of shipwrecked men 

Seem mingling with the tempest then ; 

And my poor heart cannot rest again." 

Another said : " My child this day 

Dwells in a city far away : 

Lightly the young bird leaves the nest. 

Though it holds the hearts that love him best, 

For sights to see, and for wealth to win. 

Early he went from kith and kin. — 

'Tis said they prosper who thus begin. 



" But still as the seasons come and go. 

His thoughts more strange and distant grow 

From us and from our village ways. 

The city hath swallowed up his days. 

And oft of the sin and of the snare 

That lie in wait for his footsteps there, 

I think with trembling and a prayer." 

" My child," said the third, " hath voyaged o' 

A deeper sea to a farther shore ; 

A home and a welcome he hath found 

In a fairer, mightier city's bound. 
' Early the songs of its happier bowers 
i Won him away from us and ours, 
I Yet my tears are dry that fell in showers. 

, •• Cold hath the love of the living grown. 
But 1 know that his is still my own ; 



My fears grow dark and my hopes grow dim 
For the children with me, but not for him. 
Safe to the Ark hath tlown my dove ; 
No change for youth and no chill for love, 
I Is found in our Father's house above." 

' FRANCES BROWN. 



ADVENTURERS. 

When we were children, at our will. 

That varnished summer blithe and free. 
Dear shipmate ! how we loved to Hoat 
Thro' wind and calm, in a little boat, 
.All alone on the sparkling sea ! 

One morn, defying storms we sailed 
And sung our Credo, you and I, — 
" Beyond the foam, the surge, the mist, 
The sea-fog's moving amethyst. 
The peaceful fairy islands lie." 

Afar we urged the forward prow. 

Half mad with longing as we hied ; 
Yet at the sunset's dying glow 
Faint-hearted, cea,sed, and homewards so 

Came meekly with the evening tide. 

Surely the Isle of Rest were near ! 

Why did our childish ardor tire .' 
Now more, oh, more the thousandth time I 
We thirst for that celestial ciime. 

We hunger with that old desire. 



THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 



131 



Some day, when we shall sail again, 

The home-lighis late indeed may burn ; 
Let signals flutter on the shore, 
Let tides creep up to the open door. 
But with no tide shall we return. 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



WHEN MOTHERS WATCH. 

When mothers watch beside their children's 
cradles, 

And kiss the snowy brows and golden hair, 
They do not see the future that is coming. 

Though life is made of grief, and pain, and care. 

But God is good to all the tender mothers ; 

He veils the future, with its pain and sin ; 
Though sometimes fears may dim the present 
gladness. 

Yet never can they quench the hope within. 

Yes, God is very good to tender mothers ; 

They see no thorn upon the golden head 
Of him who plays among life's earliest roses. 

That bloom a fleeting hour, and then are dead. 

Yet she, the model of all earthly mothers. 
Was never spared the pain of knowing this : 

That, though the Christ-child played with bloom- 
ing roses. 
The cross must come, for all her prayerful bliss. 

To look — He slept — upon his snowy eyelids. 
And know that they should close upon the 
tree ; — 
To gaze upon His smooth and stainless forehead, 
And know that there great drops of blood 
should be ; — 

To catch His dimpled hands and softly warm 
them, 

As mothers do, between her own, was pain ; 
She felt the nail prints on their velvet surface — 

She could not save her Lamb from being slain. 

When mothers watch beside their children's 

cradles, [fame, 

And dream bright dreams for them of joy and 

Let them remember Mary's trust through an- ' 

guish. 

And ask all blessings thro' the Holy Name. 

MAURICE F. EC-^N. 



MOTHERS. 

Out of pain, into rapture, he is clasped to her 

breast ; 
" O, my love ! O, my dove, welcome home to 

your nest !" 
Mother heart beating time to each small cooing 

note. 
To each faint, limpid gurgle of the soft little 

throat. 

Soon the baby glances w-ai)der till they rest, 
where she stands, 

Flushed with love and eager longing, shining 
eyes, waiting hands ; 

Cheek to cheek, Hp to lip, as she holds her dar- 
ling fast. 

With a gladness that is fear, — " Will it last, can 
it last .'" 

All the day there is the cry of a child in her ears. 
All the day baby hands reaching out to her tears, 
While her arms stretch in vain through the 

emptiness of air. 
Though the world is full of him, everywhere, 

everywhere. 

She feels a gentle stir, through the night, in her 

sleep, 
Turning quick with tender soothing, but to wake 

and to weep ; 
" O, my baby ! O, my baby, you are underneath 

the snow !" — 
All the joy there is in loving, all pain mothers 

know. 

MARY E. WANNIX. 



THE POET'S LITTLE RIVAL. 

A dainty desk of rosewood. 

With a half-completed sonnet. 
And a bunch of summer roses 

In a Sevres vase upon it ; 
And a bronze and crystal standish. 

And a golden pen or two, 
Whole reams of satin paper, 

Pink and azure and I'crii, 
And the poets, great and tiny. 

Scattered round in gold and blue. 

On the wall a linnet singing, 
In a niche a clock of buhl. 

Underfoot an Indian matting ; 
.4nd the casement, low and cool. 



132 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Twined about with waving ivy, 
Where the sunset glor>- bums; 

And the light and shade go creeping, 
Making bright and darl< by turns 

The pendent baslcet swinging 
From the trellis, full of ferns. 

And the poet, ah ! the poet. 

He quits his pleasant seat, 
And sees his little daughter 

In the garden at his feet. 
Walking with her fair-haired mother. 

In a dress of snowy lawn, 
Prattling softly to the flowers 

As they wander on and on ; 
Saying, " I must make a poem 

Ere the roses all are gone !" 

Then the poet leans and listens, 

With a quaint and tender air, 
As the bird-like child goes darting 

Through the beautiful parterre. 
" Bravo ! bravo ! little poet ! " 

(Startled, flushed with love's sunshine) 
"See my poem, papa darling! — 

Every word a blossom fine !" 
"Sweet!" he says; "God bless thee, daughter, 

Ne'er was poem writ like thine !" 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 



GLOUCESTER HARBOR. 

North from the beautiful islands. 

North from the headlands and highlands. 

The long sea-wall. 
The white ships flee with the swallow ; 
The day-beams follow and follow. 

Glitter and fall. 

The brown ruddy children that fear not, 
Lean over the quay, and they hear not 

Warnings of lips ; 
For their hearts go a-sailing. a-sailing. 
Out from the wharves and the wailing 

After the ships. 

Nothing to them is the golden 
Curve of the sands, or the olden 

Haunts of the town ; 
Little they reck of the peaceful 
Chiming of bells, or the easeful 

Sport on the down. 



The orchards no longer are cherished ; 
The charm of the meadow has perished : 

Dearer, ay me ! 
The solitude vast, unbcfricnded. 
The magical voice and the splendid 

Fierce will of the sea. 

Beyond them, by ridges and narrows 
The silver prows speed like the arrows 

Sudden and fair ; 
Like the hoofs of A! Horak the wondrous. 
Lost in the blue and the thund'rous 

Depths of the air ; 

On to the central Atlantic, 
Where passionate, hurrying, frantic 

Elements meet ; 
To the play and the calm and commotion 
Of the treacherous, glorious ocean 

Cruel and sweet. 

In the hearts of the children forever 
She fashions their growing endeavor. 

The pitiless sea ; 
Their sires in her caverns she stayeth. 
The spirits that love her she slayeth. 

And laughs in her glee. 

Woe, woe, for the old fascination ! 
The women make deep lamentation 

In starts and in slips ; 
Here always is hope unavailing. 
Here always the dreamers are sailing 

After the ships ! 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEV. 



SUSPIRIA. 
Young Mother, with the tearful eyes bent lowly 
In love and adoration o'er the child 
That slumbers pillowed on your heaving breast. 
Be all your thoughts of heaven serene and holy ! 
By naught of earth be your true soul defiled, — 
The only lulling of your babe to rest — 
The fond heart beating e\enly and slowly. 
And the soft breathing, like the music wild 
Of summer breezes blowing from the west ! 

Young Fatlier. tlo you come to see your boy. 
Hearing the gentle mother two-fold joy. 
Expectant of your footsteps ? Hush ! Draw nigh 
In silence, for he sleeps— the child of heaven 
Dreaming of heaven ; wake him not. Your eye 
Beholds not those twin spirits hovering by. 
One fair as mom, the other dark as even. 



THE LULLABY. 



m 



One fans the baby-brow with rainbow wings, 
The other whispers with low murmurings 
Beside his delicate ear. You cannot hear 
The sweet mysterious melody, or see 
Those dreams of more than poet's fantasy: 
Therefore in lowly reverence draw near. 

EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 



THREE KISSES. 



THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. 

O kisses they are plenty 
As blossoms on the tree ! 

And be they one, or twenty. 

They're sweet to you and me ; 
And some are for the forehead, and some 

for the lips, 
And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some for | 

finger tips. 
And some are for the dimples— but the sweetest | 

one is this : 
■When the bonny, bonny bairnie gives his little 

sailor kiss. 

I will kiss the sailor. 
This sailor lad so true ! 

1 would not kiss a tailor, 
A carpenter, or nailer. 
But I will kiss this sailor 

With bonny eyes of blue ! 
With a sonsy smile, and yellow hair to snare the 

sunshine in. 
With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek and a 

dimple in the chin ; 
Three years old, with a heart of gold — ah. who 

would want to miss 
The chance to meet my darling with his little 

sailor kiss ! 

O then the tiny fingers 

Creep, pinching, to your face 

With a touch that thrills and lingers ; 

And the rosy palms find place 

To come pressing and caressing with soft and 

clinging touch. 
Not teasing you too little, and yet not overmuch, 
While full of love and laughter the pretty blue 

eyes glow. 
And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly 

below. 
O tell me, ye who know it, is there in this world 

such bliss 
As when the bonny bairnie gives his little sailor 

kiss ! 

M.IRY E. BLAKE. 



I held a little child 

Within my arms to-day ; 
The deep blue eyes unclosed 

'Neath morning's golden ray. 
I pressed a loving l;iss 

Upon the infant brow. 
And whispered : " There is born 

To earth a young life now." 

I held the little child 

Within my arms to-night; 
The deep blue eyes unclosed 

Beneath the taper's light. 
I pressed a loving kiss 

Upon the moistened brow. 
And whispered : " There is born 

An heir to heaven now." 

I lay the little child 

Within a casket white ; 
The deep blue eyes are closed 

To all save heaven's light. 
I press a loving kiss 

Upon the pure white brow. 
And whisper : " There is born 

To God an angel now." 

MARGARET E. JORDAN. 



THE LULLABY. 



I saw two children hushed to death, 
In lap of One with silver wings, 

Harkenmg a lute, whose latest breath 
Low lingered on the trembling strings. 

Her face is very pale and fair. 
Her hooded eyelids darkly shed 

Celestial love, and all her hair 
Is like a crown around her head. 

Each ripple sinking in its place. 
Along the lute's faint-ebbing strain. 

Seems echo'd slowlier from her face. 
And echo'd back from theirs again. 

Yes, now is silence. Do not weep. 

Her eyes are fixed : observe them long ; 
And spell, if thou canst pierce so deep. 

The purpose of a nobler song. 

WILL1.4M ALLINGHAM. 



'34 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



LULLABY. 



So tired on this bright day of summer, 
So faint with the fragrance of flowers 

Her tongue than the green grass is dumber, 
Her senses the heat ov-rpowers: 

And what, now all these overcome her 
Shall we do for this darling of ours ? 

A mantle of velvet we give her. 

And jewels that star-like shall gleam, 
And a crown of red poppies to quiver 

And nod as she crosses the stream- 
As she crosses the still Slumber River, 

And enters the broad land of Dream. 

In that land let her wander at pleasure. 

And visit the people of Sleep, 
Who are lavish of glittering treasure 

They rather would give her than keep. 
And share in their joy beyond measure. 

Till her heart in an ecstacy leap. 

No black, frightful vision pursue her. 

No trouble her senses affright : 
But bright shapes and beautiful woo her. 

Each clad in a vesture of light : 
And e.xquisite pleasures thrill thro' her 

The whole of the sweet summer night. 

And if of her bliss she should weary. 

As weary she possibly may, 
Let the soul of our golden-haired deary 

Come back to its dwelling of clay. 
To make our existence less dreary. 

And add a new light to the day. 

THOMAS UUNN ENGLISH. 



THE LITTLE MAIDEN. 

Little maiden in the rain, 

On the mountain road, 
Never bloom of healthier grain 

On a wet cheek glowed : 
Never active little feet 
Hastened footsteps more discreet. 

Plain it is it was not play 
Brought thee out of doors, 

This tempestuous autumn day 
O'er the windy moors ; 

Something thou hast had to do. 

Deemed of trust and moment too. 



Now the errand duly done. 

Home thou hiest fast ; 
Through the flying gleams of sun. 

Through the laden blast. 
With the light of purpose high 
Kindling bravely in thine eye. 

Oh, 'twas fearful at the top 

While it rained and blew. 
Till the dark cloud lifted up 

And the sun beamed through. 
Showing all the country's side 
Spread beneath thee, grand and wide. 

Wondrous wide the world extends I 
Thought 'st thou as thy glance 

Traveled to the welkin's ends 
O'er the bright expanse. 

Stubble fields and browsing trees. 

Spires and foreign parishes ! 

Other children's homes are there 
Sheltered from the storm ; 

Others' mothers' arms prepare 
Clasping welcomes warm ; 

Others' fathers' fields are made 

Fertile by the plough and spade. 

Men and horses on the land, 

Maidens in the byre ; 
15oys and girls a merry band. 

Round the evening fire :— 
Such the world, for thee, and, lo 
There it lay in glorious show. 

Round thee in the glittering rays 

By the rain-drops shed. 
Shone the blossomed furze ablaze. 

Shone the fern-brake red ; 
Rough, but lovely as thy own 
Life's ideal, little one ! 

Then a glowing thought there came, 

(iuess I not aright ?— 
That the furze's yellow flame 
Could not shine so bright. 
Nor the fern-leaws spread so fair. 
If the good God were not there. 

Rightly to that thought 1 trace 
All the courage high 

Flashing through thy wetted face, 
! Mounting in thine eye, 

I Now the cioud and driving ram 

Close around thy path again. 



OBJECT LESSONS FOR EI TUNA. 



Could these purblind eyes of mine 

Past the curtain, see 
Things unseen and things divine, 

Sure it seems to me 
I would see an Angel glide 
Down the mountain by thy side. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL. 

Her blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, 
Her lips have made smilmg more fair; 

On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle. 
But thousands of curls in her hair. 

She's little, — you don't wish her taller ; 

Just half through the teens is her age ; 
And baby or lady to call her. 

Were something to puzzle a sage ! 

Her walk is far better than dancing ; 

She speaks as another might sing ; 
And all by an innocent chancing. 

Like lambkins and birds in the spring. 

Unskill'd in the airs of the city. 

She's perfect in natural grace ; 
She's gentle, and truthful, and witty. 

And ne'er spends a thought on her face ; — 

Her face, with the fine glow that's in it. 
As fresh as an apple-tree bloom — 

And O ! when she comes, in a minute. 
Like sunbeams she brightens the room. 

As taking in mind as in feature. 

How many will sigh for her sake ! — 

I wonder, the sweet little creature. 
What sort of a wife she would make. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



THE LITTLE SISTER'S SONG. 

Sleep, little brother, you must not awaken 

Till mother conies back to her baby again ; 
Weary and long is the way she has taken, 

Over the common and thro' the green glen ; 
Up the steep hill by the path that is nearest. 

Thinking of you as she hurries along. 
Sleep, then, and dream that she's watching you, 
dearest. 

Rocking your cradle, and singing her song. 



In the still room there's no sound to disquiet. 

Only the clock, ticking even and low, 
Only the bird in his cage hanging by it, 

Chirping a note as he hops to and fro. 
Out in the sunlight the woodbine is stirring. 

Filling the air with its fragrance so sweet ; 
On the low window-seat pussy sits purring, 

Washing her face with her little white feet. 

Far down the lane merry voices are ringing. 

Comrades have beckoned me out to their play. 
Why did you start .' It is I that am singing ; 

Why did you frown ? I'm not going away. 
Could I forsake you for play or for pleasure. 

Lying alone in your helplessness here } 
How could I leave you, my own little treasure. 

No one to rock you, and no one to cheer } 

In the room corners I watch the dark shadows, 

Deep'ning and length 'ning as eveningcomes on? 
Soon will the mowers return from the meadows. 

Far to the westward the red sun is gone. 
By the green hedgerow I see her now coming. 

Where the last sunbeam is just on her track ; 
Still I sit by you, love, drowsily humming, 

Sleep, little baby, till mother comes back. 

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 



OBJECT LESSONS FOR EITHNA. 
When the Sabbath evening smiles 
Over Carbery's rock-bound isles. 
Winding bays and deep defiles; 

And the sun, just half way o'er. 
Flings his beams to either shore. 
Love behind and hope before, — 

Emblem of our ancient race. 
Ever bound m glory's trace. 
On the earth no resting place, — 

Where the zephyrs, whisp'ring bland. 
Woo the light waves on the strand. 
Lead our Eithna by the hand. 

She is coy and finely strung, 
Wistful, weird, and sweet of tongue,— 
Passing wise for one so young ; 

And her eager eyes and ears 
Treasure all she sees and hears — 
Hers are wonder-working years. 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Show her on the sunlit sea. 
Links of love to her of me, 
And bespeak her tenderly. 

Until ocean-sounds and sights 
Steep her heart in soft delights; 
Point her then the upland heights, 

Where commingling cloud and mist, 
By the parting sunbeams kissed. 
Float like waves of amethyst, 



j ORIENT BORN. 

Beautiful olive-brown brow, chin where the 
fairy print lies; 

j Fragrant dark tresses above splendid myste- 
rious eyes ; 

Mellowest fires that glow under the calm of 
1 her face. 

Girl of all girls in the world for mould and 
I for color and grace. 



Ever changing form and hue, 
By the light winds riven through. 
Opening wondrous scenes to view — 

Mountains in their vernal glow 
Flinging dappled locks of snow 
Where the torrents bound below. 

Breaking from their wintry hold ; 
Clasping hills and headlands bold. 
Belts of sapphire gemmed in gold; 

Valleys filled with topaz glooms. 
Yew-trees wav-ng sable plumes 
Over old historic tombs. 

Rifled fane and hoary tower. 
Records of perverted power. 
In their most impressive hour. 

When the shades are gaining higher, 
And the lofty dome and spire 
Vanish, touched by sacred fire, — 

Fix by all a mother's art. 
Irish objects on her heart; 
But with life they will depart ; 

Oft when touched by fancy's wings, 
Will those fondly-cherished things 
Rise to grand imaginings. 

And renew the golden chain. 
Severed by the rolling main. 
To our native land again. 

Weave the outlines, fondly weave, 
1 shall point and purpose give 
To the etchings — if 1 live. 

So her life shall be to thine 
As a fondly-clasping vine, 
And a glory unto mine. 



Such are the opal-like maids that flash in the 

groves to and fro, 
Dancers .\rabian; such, languorous ages ago, 

Ptolemy's daughter; and so. breathing faint 

cassia and musk. 
Veiled young Moors on divans, singing and 

sighing at dusk. 

Never in opiate dreams have 1 o'ertaken you, 

sweet 
Never with senna-tipped hands ; never with 

silken-shod feet ; 

Still the love-charm of the East must over 

and over be told 
By and by havoc with hearts ! Ah. slowly. 

my seven-year old ! 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



MY PRISON. 
Nor bolts nor bars my prison has. 
No frowning turrets grim and high, 
Seem to mock the smiling sky; 
Yet could nor hold nor durance be 
Stronger than that which bindeth me. 

No tyrants stern my jailors are ; — 
Six merry wardens guard the door. 
With fun and frolic evermore ; 
And one can neither dance nor sing. 
But only laugh, "the cunning thing." 

A pleasant place my prison is. 
With pit-a-pat of childish feet 
And baby-kisses, soft and sweet : — 
There is no freedom half so dear 
As these bright chains that bind me here. 



J^OSV CHILD, WITH FOREHEAD FAIR. 



137 



For life and death my bondage i;-! ; 
Not rarest gem of land or sea, 
Nor glittering gold may ransom me — 
A willing captive, happier far 
Than many crowned monarchs are. 

A blessed thing my bondage is : — 
O, joyous thraldom, gladly borne, 
No chains were e'er so lightly worn, 
As fetters held by childish hands, 
W'hen mother-love has forged the bands. 

MARY K. MANN IX. 



THE GODMOTHER'S GIFT. 
Beside the baby's cradle 

She sat the whole night long. 
To lay upon his little lips 

The kisses six of song. 

•' This is the kiss shall make him long 

To drink," she softly sighed, 
•■ The fount of beauty with the thirst 

That ne'er is satisfied. 

•■ This is the kiss shall ope the eye 

And stimulate the brain 
To see what others never saw 

And he can ne'er attain. 

■'This is the kiss shall charm his lips 

So that his whole life long 
There honey bees of thought shall hive 

The stinging sweets of song. 

"And here the kiss of wandering 

I print on feet and breast. 
That he may for possession have 

Desire and unrest. 

•■And this shall be the kiss of love, 

His life to consecrate 
To her that shall be lost too soon, 

Or be found out too late. 

" These are the kisses five I give 

My baby in his sleep ; 
The sixth, and sacredest of all, 

A little while I keep. 

•' And he shall never know, or, known. 

It never shall be told, 
Which sweeter is — the kiss I give, 

Or the kiss that I withhold." 

GEORGE T. LANIGAN. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 
A baby was sleeping. 
Its mother was weeping. 
For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea. 
And the tempest was swelling. 
Round the fisherman's dwelling — 
.Vnd she cried: ■'Dermot, darling, oh! come 
back to me !" 

Her beads while she numbered. 

The baby still slumber'd, 
.Vnd smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; 
I " Oh ! blest be that warning. 

My child, thy sleep adorning, [thee. 
I'or I know that the angels are whispering with 

"And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me — 
And say thou would'st rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father, [thee." 

I''or I know that the angels are whispering with 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning, [see ; 

i\nd the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing, [with thee." 
Saiil, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
SAMUEL LOVER. 



ROSY CHILD, WITH FOREHEAD FAIR. 
Rosy child, with forehead fair. 
Coral lips and shining hair. 
In whose mirthful, clever eyes 
Such a world of gladness lies ; 
As thy loose curls, idly straying 
O'er thy mother's neck, while playing. 
Blend her soft locks' shadowy twiue 
With the glittering light of thine, — 
Which is fairest — she or thou .' 

In sweet contrast are ye met. 

Such as heart could ne'er forget : 

Thou are brilliant as a flower, 

Crimsoning in the sunny nour ; 

Merry as a singing bird. 

In the greenwood sweetly heard ; 

Restless as if fluttering wings 

Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 

Ignorant of all distress. 

Full of childhood's careles.sne'^s. 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



She is gentle ; she hath known 
Something of the echoed tone 
Sorrow leaves where'er it goes. 
In this world of many woes. 
On her brow such shadows are 
As the faint cloud gives the star, 
X'eiling its most holy light. 
Though it still be pure and bright ; 
And the color in her cheek 
To the hue on thine is weak. 
Save when flushed with sweet surprise 
Sudden welcoine lights her eyes ; 
And her softly chiselled face 
(But for living, moving grace) 
Looks like one of those which beam 
In the Italian painter's dream — 
Some beloved Madonna, bending 
O'er the infant she is tending; 
Holy, bright and undeliled 
Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 
Who, though painted strangely fair. 
Seems but made for holy prayer, 
Pity, tears and sweet appeal. 
And fondness such as angels feel ; 
Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
With serenest majesty. 

Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
May that brightly budding life. 
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife. 
Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 
Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 
And the good thou dost impart 
Lie deep-treasured in his heart, 
That, when he at length shall strive 
In the bad world where we live, 
Thy sweet name may still be blest 
As one who taught his soul true rest ! 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



THE FAIRY BOY. 

A mother came when stars were paling. 

Wailing round a lonely spring ; 
Thus she cried, while tears were falling. 

Calling on the Fairy King :— 
" Why with spells my child caressing. 

Courting him with fairy joy ? 
Why destroy a mother's blessing — 

Wherefore steal my baby boy ? 



■ ' )"cr liie mountain, thro' the wild wood, 

Where his childhood loved to play. 
Where the flowers are freshly springing. 

There I wander day by day ; 
There I wander, growing fonder 

Of the child that made my joy. 
On the echoes wildly calling 

To restore my fairy boy. 

" Hut in vain my plaintive calling. 

Tears are falling all in vain ; 
He now sports with fairy pleasure. 

He's the treasure of their train ! 
Fare thee well, my child, forever ; 

In this world I've lost my joy ; 
But in the next we ne'er shall sever, — 

There I'll tind my fairy boy !" 

S.VMUEL I.OVER. 



THE FAIRY CHILD. 

The summer sun was sinking 
j With a mild light, calm and mellow ; 
I It shone on my little boy's bonnie cheeks. 
And his loose locks of yellow. 

The robin was singing sweetly, 
And his song was sad and tender ; 

And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song. 
Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor. 

My little boy lay on my bosom 

While his soul the song was quaffing. 
The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek. 
I And his heart and his eye were laughing. 

I sate alone in my cottage. 
' The midnight needle plying ; 
I feared for my child, for the rush's light 
In the socket now was dying! 

There came a hand to my lonely latch. 
Like the wind at midnight moaning ; 

I knelt to pray, but rose again. 

For I heard my little boy groaning. 

I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast. 

But that night my child departed — 
They left a weakling in his stead. 

And 1 am broken-hearted ! 

I O ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, 
i For his eyes are dim and hollow. 
My little boy is gone — is gone. 
And his mother soon will follow ! 



THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 



139 



The dirge for the dead will be sung for me. 

And the mass be chanted meetly. 
And I shall sleep with my little boy, 

In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 

JOHN ANSTER. 



THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 



Oh pleasant, pleasant were the days 

We listened to the story. 
Beloved of children, and beloved 

Of story-tellers hoary. 

Of Robin Redbreast, kindly bird, 
Renowned in childhood's annals. 

Whose fame rolls on from age to age 
In ever deepening channels; 

Who covered up the pretty babes 
With leaves and moss and grasses. 

And since in nursery legends lives, 
And other birds surpasses — 

Sweet, touching tale to which young hearts 

Still tearful homage render ; 
But I can tell a truer tale. 

More touching and more tender ;— 

No mythic tale of nursery lore, 

No legend quaint and hoary, 
But a true modern version of 

The dear old precious story. 

II. 

Hither and thither, up and down. 
Through fields and lanes so lonely. 

Bordered with berry-bearing trees 
And gemmed with wild flowers only ; 

O'er brooks that babbled as they ran 
Some tale well worth the knowing. 

Round hillocks green, by sedgy pools. 
Where flag and reeds were growing ; 

Taking no heed of time or tide. 

No note of wind or weather, 
They wandered on and on and on, 

Three little ones together. 



\Vhilcs running races with the wind. 
That fresh and keen was blowing; 

Whiles panting as they paused for breath, 
Their cheeks like roses glowing ; 

Whiles lagging on the level ground. 
Whiles climbing o'er the hilly. 

Whiles prattling in the puzzling way 
That foolish folks call silly, 

Of earth and heaven, and home and all 
Their joy and all their sorrow — 

Of what they did on yesterday. 
And what they'll do to-morrow. 

So to and fro, with tireless feet 
And hearts light as a feather. 

And merry, chattering tongues, they went 
These little ones together. 



The sun went down, the wind blew keen, 
The night looked bleak and dreary. 

Their little hands grew numb with cold. 
Their little feet grew weary. 

Ah me, was there no angel voice 
To utter words of warning.' 
j Ah me, were there no angel eyes 
To guard them till the morning .' 

" Oh take me home." the youngest cried, 
" And me too." said the other; 

'• It's getting late, and cold and dark, 
Oh take us home to mother!" 

With loving care she turned to them — 

Herself so little older — 
And strove to warm each tiny hand 

With hands as cold — nay colder. 

Her shawl she wrapped about the one. 

Her cloak about the other: 
And strove with childhood's simple guile 

Their vague wild fears to smother. 

She led them to a sheltered spot, 

Yet there the cold winds found them ; 

So gathering up the withered leaves. 
She piled them close around them. 

Then whispering words of love and hope 
So brave none could suspect, or 

Dream of the terror at heart, 
This six-year old protector 



140 



POEMS OF HOME AND CHILDHOOD. 



Went forth to glean another heap. 

Unknowing and uncaring 
That there was merit in the act 

Or virtue in the daring. 

And came and went and went and came 
With cold and terror shivering. 

And every nerve in her slight frame 
With toil unwonted quivering. 

"One bundle more." she stooped and said. 

" Will save us from the weather. 
And, darlings, when the morning comes 

We'll all go home together." 

IV. 

The morning came, the sun shone down 
On hill and vale and meadow ; 

The dewdrops glistened on the grass. 
The stream half shine, half shadow. 

Went murmuring on its way that led 
Through mazes without number, 

Round by the nook, where 'mid dry leaves 
Two children lay in slumber. 

And near them, by a brambly sheaf 

That fell from her oerladen 
And nerveless arms, lay cold in death 

The little martyr maiden. 

j MAKV MULLALV. 



A LITTLE MOTHER'S LESSON. 
Dolly! O Dolly, my darling! you're much too 

naughty to-daj' ! 
Come here to my arms this moment, and 

listen to what I must say. 
It's horrid to have to scold, and it isn't my 

way at all. 
But 1 must impress on your mind that Pride 

goes before a fall ! 

There's a wee little scowl on your forehead, 
and a toss on the tip of your nose. 



That told me. the moment I saw you, you 
were thinking too much of your clothes; 

After all my carefuUcst teaching, to think 
that your ver)' first ball 

Should make you forget in a moment, that 
Pride goes before a fall ! 

I 've told you over and over, whenever you had 

a new dress. 
That I loved you not one bit better and 1 

loved you not one bit less ; 
That 1 liked you best for yourself, so pretty 

and sweet and small. 
And that Pride was a dreadful thing, dear, 

that goes before a fall ! 

I used to be just like you, so fond of sashes 

and things, 
.\nd when I was dressed in my best it seemed 

that my feet were wings. 
And that I could fly with delight— but now I 

am grown so tall, 
' And I know, for mamma has told me, that 

Pride goes before a fall ! 
I 
Besides, I have felt it myself; for as sure as 

sure could be. 
The time 1 was most puffed up was a time of 

trial for me ; 
There was always a slap or a snub from nurse 

or Kitty or Paul — 
Oh. indeed I know ver^• well that Pride goes 

before a fall ! 

So Dolly. Dolly, my darling, be sure you heed 

what I say. 
And never look haughty or \'ain. as I found 

you looking to-day ; 
Now let me tie on your hat. and we'll go to 

make a call. 
But never, never forget, dear, that Pride goes 

before a fall ! 

MARY E. BLAKE. 



PART III. 

POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Let us arise, and shake away the dust 

Of brick and pavement from our flying feet ; 
All former visions from remembrance thrust, 

And even forget that once we trod the street. 

Up in the mountains haply we may meet 
Those glorious fancies that still shun the throng ; 

The rill's wild music, tremulous and sweet. 
Will lend a softer cadence to nur song. 
The cataract's curbless strength may teach us to be strong. 

And flowers, and perfumes, and untainted air, 

.''ind forest green with dark cathedral glooms. 
And the fleet birds, whose mission is to bear 

Nature's true music on their outspread plumes ; 

And mossy banks, and overhanging blooms 
Of trailing honeysuckle — these shall teach 

Our tongues to breathe the passion that consumes 
The inmost spirit ; and we shall learn a speech 
Wide-general enough all human hearts to reach. 

H.\LPINE. 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



HYMN OF THE UNIVERSE. 

Roll on, thou Sun ! in glory roll. 

Thou giant, rushing through the Heaven, 
Creation's wonder. Nature's soul. 

Thou hast no Morn, and hast no Even ; 
The Planets die without thy blaze ; 

The Cherubim, with star-dropt wing, 
Float on the ocean of thy rays, 

Thou brightest emblem of their King ! 

Roll, lovely Earth, in night and noon, 

With Ocean's band of beauty bound, 
AVhile one sweet orb, the pearly Moon, 

Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
And angels, with delighted eyes. 

Behold thy plains, and mounts, and streams, 
In day's magnificence of dyes. 

Swift whirling, like transcendent dreams. 

Ivoll, Planets I ua your dazzling road. 

Forever sweeping round the Sun 
What eye beheld, when first ye glowed ? 

What eye shall see your courses done ? 
Roll in your solemn majesty. 

Ye deathless splendors of the skies. 
Ye Altars, from which angels see 

The incense of Creation rise. 



Roll, Comets, on your flaming cars. 

Ye heralds of sublimer skies ; 
Roll on, ye million-million stars. 

Ye hosts, ye heavens of galaxies ! 
Ye, who the wilds of Nature roam. 

Unknown to all but angels' wings. 
Tell us in what more glorious dome 

Rules all your world, the KING OF KINGS. 

C.F.ORGE CROLY. 



THE AWAKENING. 

A lady came to a snow-white bier. 
Where a youth lay pale and dead ; 
She took the veil from her widowed head, 
And, bending low, in his ear she said ■ 
■' Awaken ! for I am here." 



She passed with a smile to a wild wood near, 
Where the boughs were barren and bare ; 
She tapped on the bark with her fingers fair, 
And called to the leaves that were buried there : 
" Awaken ! for I am here." 

The birds beheld her without a fear 
As she walked thro' the dank-mossed dells; 
She breathed on their drowsy citadels, 
And whispered the young in their ivory shells : 
"Awaken! for 1 am here." 

On the graves of the flowers she dropped a tear. 
But with hope and with joy, like us ; 
And even as the Lord to Lazarus, 
She called to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: 
" Awaken ! for I am here." 



To the lilies that lay in the silver mere. 
To the reeds by the golden pond ; 
To the moss by the rounded marge beyond. 
She spoke with her voice so soft and fond : 
" Awaken ! for 1 am here." 



The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear. 
From under its own gravestone ; 
For the blessed tidings around had flown. 
And before she spoke the impulse was knovra : 
" Awaken ! for I am here." 



144 



POEMS OF NATURE AND /'LACES. 



The pale gr;iss lay with its long looks sere 
On the breast of the open plain ; 
She loosened the nwtted hair of the slain. 
And cried, as she filled each juicy vein : 
" Awaken ! for I am here." 

The rush roie up with its pointed spear 
The flag, with its falchion broad ; 
The dock uplifted its shield unawcd. 
As her voice rung over the quickenin^j sad : 
" Awaken ! for I am here." 

The red blood ran through the clover near. 
And the heath on the hills o'erhead ; 
The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with rcil. 
As she started to life, when the lady s.'.ia • 
" Awaken ! for 1 am here." 

And the young Year rose from his snow-wliiio 
And the flowers from their green retreat ; [bier 
And they came and knelt at the lady's feet. 
Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet : 
"O lady! behold us here." 

DENIS FI.ORENCK McCARTHV. 



MUSIC IN NATURE. 

Far, far away, in fields of waving gold, 
I hear the tassels' swaying symphonies. 

While myriad insect-orchestras unfold 
Their rasping medleys in the apple-tr«-:.. 

I In seas of creamy clover, white and pink, 

! Hum tippling bells, all drowsy with perfume ; 

And, in the orchard, one wild bobolink 
1 Breaks the repose cf twilight's dreamy gloom. 

The wind wakes solos in the sombre pine 
Upon the hillside desolate and '.one ; 

And, in the woods, thro' labyrinths of vine. 
Is heard the brooklet's lisping monotom- 

Which mossy caverns, echoing, repeat ; 

While o'er my soul, in tender changes, flows- 
Murmurous, melodious, and strangely sweet — 

The subtle music no musician knows. 

R. K. MUNKITTRICK. 



THE FIRST SPRING DAY. 
But one short week ago the trees were bare. 
And winds were keen, and N-iolets pinched with 

frost; 
Winter was with us ; but the larches tossed 
Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there 
Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air 
And in the blood ; sweet sun-gleams come and go 
Upon the hills ; in lanes the wild flowers blow. 
And tender leaves are bursting everywhere. 
About the hedge the small birds peer and dart; 
Each bush is full of amorous flutterings 
And little rapturous cries. The thrush apart 
Sits throned, and loud his rip>e contralto rings. 
Music is on the wind— and. in my hear,. 
Infinite love for all created things. 

JOHN TOUHUXTER, 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
Welcome. O welcome, thou green, green grass. 

So sweet through the red clay peeping! 
But a month ago. and who'd think the snow 

Held such treasure within its keeping? 
You look so fresh from your long repose. 

In the light of the sun. just risen. 
I almost wish that beneath the snows 
1 had shared your wintry prison. 
The winter beheld you for death arrayed 

The snow like a shroud above you, 
Still was there an essence in every blade. 
Which told there was One to love you. 

How grand your robe of the emerald sheen. 

How graceful your blades, and slender. 
From the red earth's crust, all unstained by dust. 

So beautiful, soft and tender ; 
There's a throb of joy in the trees hard by. 

As their buds in the dew-drops glisten. 
And a voice of love in the air above. 

And we pause that our hearts may listen ! 

Let poets name it the voice of spring. 
To the spirit of fragrance calling :— 

To me 'tis the voice of the heavenly King 
I Adown through the azure falling. 

i Your slight stems bend as the soft winds sigh 
Their love to the opening blossoms. 

I And the hills rejoice as the streams give voice. 
Breaking out of their verdant bosoms. 



AN APRIL DAY. 145 


There's a rhythmic stave in each coursing wave, 


The grassy lawns are all aglow 


There's a spirit of song in the flowers, 


With dandelion flowers. 


And thelays of the birds, you can note their words: 


And cowslips that in April blow. 


" What a beautiful earth' is ours !" 


Whether it smiles or showers. 


Let who will call it the voice of spring. 
Now wooing the flowers and grasses, 




Out in the fields hard by the town, 


To me 'tis the voice of the heavenly King, 
Still breathing new life as He passes. 


Where munching cattle rest, 


The meadow-lark in coat of brown 




And saffron-yellow vest. 


And the earth is moved like a young bride loved, 
■Who hearkens her loved one's greeting ; 


From topmost bough of some tall tree 

His vernal song doth pour. 
Piping his little note of glee 


And her heart is stirred to its inmost chord. 


The voice of His love repeating ! 


Against the railway's roar. 


The hills are rocked, and the streams unlocked, 


In the thrill of her heart's expansion. 


The robin from the orchard sings. 


And the green and gold, where the snows lay cold. 


The jay screams from the copse. 


Outrival His starry mansion. 


Flitting upon his azure wings 


Let poets call this the voice of spring, 


Among the spruce-tree tops. 


To the spirit of beauty calling; 
But to me 'tis the voice of the Great High King 




And hark ! the distant campanile 


Adown through the azure falling. 


Rings out a merry chime. 


Saluting with its bells of steel 


In the far gone years the gifted seers 


The festive Easter time ! 


Ennumbered the stars of heaven. 


CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 


But what learned sage can unroll one page 
In the light of this morning given .' 






O, who can number the blades of grass .' 
Or who can reveal their essence ? 


AN APRIL DAY. 


Do the hosts of night in their heavenly flight 


It is the most joyous day 


Bespeak a more wondrous presence } 


That ever has found its way 


O scientist ! go revel in mist. 


On the wings of the sunny hours, — 


Expand and compress your gases ; 


That ever did stray and roam 


But give me the May, at the dawn of day. 


From the heaven that is its home. 


With the hills, the trees, and the grasses ! 


Far down to this world of ours. 


JOHN BOYLE. 


There is such a golden air. 




Such radiance everywhere. 




Such song, and odor, and light ; 




Such a flood of life supernal, 


AN IDYL OF APRIL. 


That the earth had kept eternal 




Alive in her breast all night. 


The motley month of smiles and tears 


With shambling gait doth come, 


Oh ! fair leaves, visibly budding. 


And eager eyes and heedful ears 


Oh, birds all the glad land flooding 


And backward crook of thumb. 


With a chorus of singing sweet. 




All my being is one with you. 


Ready with many a furtive wile 


Is linked from the heaven's bright blue 


The wayside lout to lure. 


To the wet grass at my feet. 


And send him from his road a mile. 




Strange nothings to procure. 


Now the earth must look again 




As she rose from the Deluge rain. 


And laughter in the lanes doth ring, 


Clad in garb of morning dew ; 


And from the village school ; 


As young, and green, and glorious. 


At every waif the urchins fling 


And spotless as spreads before us 


The cry of " April Fool ! " 


The sky's unspeakable blue. 



i4<5 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



Oh ! the miracle of spring. 

Oh ! gladness of everything. ' 

Oh ! joys the season doth give ; 
Oh ! ineffable bloom of youth. 
Of freshness, and hope, and truth ! — 

I thank Thee, oh Clod, that 1 live ! 

MARY CF.OC.HEGAN. 



WAITING FOR THE MAY. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles. 
With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study. 
To the young face fair and ruddy. 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day. 
Ah ! my heart is sick with longing. 

Longing for the May. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May- 
Sighing for their sure returning. 
When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 

All the winter lay. 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 

Sighing for the May. 
Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows ; 

Where in laughing and in sobbing 

Glide the streams away. 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad. dejected, weary. 
Waiting for the May. 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings. 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings; 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away : 

Man is ever weary, weary. 

Waiting for the May ! 

DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 



ARCADIAN. 

His surely is a happy lot who dwells 

In pleasant pastures far removed from town. 

Whose life from sunrise till the sun goes down 

The same unchanging peaceful story tells ; 

Deep in the rustic lore of fleecy fells ; 

I'roud of the harvest he himself has sown. 

The spreading meadows that his hands have 

mown. 
And the great cattle that he buys and sells. 
For whom the placid night brings slumber sweet. 
Stirred by no sound of any dancing feet. 
Lit by no light of any laughing eyes. 
Whose quiet days unmoved by vain desire. 
From summer's sunlight to the winter's tire. 
Creep slowly on, until at last he dies. 

JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 



A SONG IN MAY-TIME. 
A song for the joyful May-time, 

A song like the song of a bird, 
A song of the heart in its play-time. 

With never a sorrowful word ! 

A song— but whence shall I win it? — 

Winged like the butterflies. 
With the fresh-leaved woods breath in it, 

And the glow of the glad sunrise ! 

This is the song you ask, dear. — 

Would I could do your will ! 
But set me a song as a task, dear, — 

A test of the singer's skill ? 

A dweller in cities ever, 

A toiler within the walls, 
"Mid the tumult of man's endeavor. 

Where the unseen fetter galls;— 

Little I know of the tender. 

Blithe songs that the free birds sing. 
Little I know of the splendor 

Of the wild wood'.s blossoming; 

And less of the heart's sweet play-time — 
So brief was mine, you know ;— 

And the flowers of my beautiful May-time 
Died under a strange, late snow. 

Out of my life the cheery. 

Sweet spirit of youth is fled ; 
My songs are the sighs of the weary. 

Or plaints for my dear ones dead. 



A SUMMER SONG. 



147 



Yet, you've loved this sad song-voice, dear. 
You would give it a nobler range, 

And because of your honor and choice, dear. 

'Twere fair to ring out and rejoice, dear. 
With the mirth of the May-time change. 

O joy to be your joy-bringer — 
When 'tis joy, dear, even to pray 

That a fairer and gladder singer 
Will sing your song of the May ! 

KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 



What, tho" you tell me she'll pass by-and-by? 
So, too, shall we, but like her let us try, [the eye. 
With the smile from the heart looking out from 

To live while we live, if it were but a day — 

To know how to live is to learn how to die, 

With hope of renewal, like beautiful May ; 

For death and the tomb. 

And winter and gloom, 

Are harbingers only of Heaven and May. 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



A VISIT OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

You in the city, there, sallow and sere. 
What shall I tell you ? — A visitor's here, 
After a wander of all the round year ; 

Gilded and garlanded ever so gay, — 
Pure as God's pearl in the queen-flower's ear, — 
Ah, the sweet stranger's our beautiful May! 
Never were known 
Such hearts as our own. 
Since dropped on us, singing, our beautiful May! 

April vk'as loving — had gifts for us, too — 
Primrose and crocus, so golden and blue ; 
Pouting so oft, tho', I doubt — to be true — 

Some, in our souls, slyly wished her away. 
Whether she dreamt of it. none of us knew; 
But, while she brightened, the beautiful May 
Flashed on the lawn, 
Singing, " .'\pril is gone !" — [May! 
Ah, of all the twelve sisters, be mine the sweet 

Now, my young sycamore, tender and tall. 
Comforts my eye with her new em'rald shawl ; 
Now, too, the hawthorn, there, over the wall, 

Tasselled with white, looks a queen in her way. 
Who, do you think, and unasked, did it all .' 
Oh, who but this stranger — our beautiful May! 
Where's there a spot 
To-day by our cot. 
Without some new glory from beautiful May .' 

Here is she — there is she — all the day long, 
Coa.xing up flowers, and singing her song ; 
Scenting our lilacs, that dazzle the throng ; 

Coming and going there over the way ; 

Doing so much— and so little that's wrong. 

Oh, what should we do for our beautiful May.' 

Song is not known 

Could equal her own, 

Else might we hymn to our beautiful May ! 



A SUMMER SONG. 

Oh, lovely sunbeams thro' the meadows dancing. 

On golden pinions, all the livelong day, [ing. 
Kissing young leaves, on crystal streamlets glanc- 

Changing to living gold their silver spray! 
Wee amorous elves, coquetting with the roses, 

Wooing the daisy in her grassy bed, 
Till the shy flower unconsciously uncloses 

Her dew-gemmed leaves, and blushes rosy red ! 

Gilding gray rocks, on rugged mountains 
streaming. 

Bidding the flowers in sheltered nooks awake, 
Calling young song birds from their happy 
dreaming. 

Waking the laughter of the dimpling lake I 
Playing "Bo-peep" amid the white buds blowing 

In pearly clusters on the hawthorn tree, [ing 
To the round eyes of wondering childhood show- 

The rapid journeyings of the wandering bee. 

Shedding a halo bright on youthful tresses. 

Bidding young hearts for very rapture sing, 
Touching the brow of care with kind caresses. 

Or glinting lightly on the skylark's wing I 
Ah, merry sunbeams, like sly cupids straying 

In the glad footsteps of the rustic lass, 
On sun-tanned cheeks and snow white kerchief 
playing, 

Twinkling like fireflies in the emerald grass. 

Oh, lovely sunbeams, like blest angels gliding 

Through courts of squalor, sickness, want and 
gloom. 
Telling of clouds like golden chariots riding 

Proudly majestic o'er a world of bloom ; 
Of winding lanes, and milk-white homesteads 
peeping 

Like modest virgins from secluded bowers ; 
Of shallow pools, and baby streamlets leaping 

In giddy gladness 'neath down-drooping flow- 



148 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Dance, lovely sunbeams, thro' fair countr)' mead- j It has blessed us with its presence, when we 



Bathe hill and cottage in your holy light, [ows. 
From city slums go chase the mournful shadows 

That fill poor homesteads with eternal night. 
To those who pine in ignorance and sorrow 

May all your tenderest, holiest gifts be given. 

That sorrowing hearts one ray of hope may 

borrow [heaven ! 

In the sweet knowledge that you come from 

FANNY FORRESTER. 



deemed our grief the sorest ; 
It has lifted us from sorrow with the freshness 
of its kiss." 

Thus the flower, and the brooklet, .ind the- h( 1 
age in the meadows. 
And the forest trees that panted through the 
summer in their pain. 
Looking upward, are rejoicing on the threshold 
of the winter. 
At the coming of the healer, at the advent of 
the rain. 

DANIEL O'CONNELL. 



THE WELCOME RAIN. 

"Welcome! oh, ye showers," said the (lowers, 
parched and dying ; 
" Long have we been waiting for the coming 
of the rain ; 
We weary of the sunshine, wc are wearied with 
our sighing — 
Oh ! ye showers," said the (lowers, '• ye arc- 
welcome once again." 

" Welcome ! " said the brooklet ; •' in my prison 
on the mountain 
I have sickened, I have thirsted for the pleasant 
plains below ; 
But now I hear the murmur of the shower-laden I 
south wind. 
And my waters, loosed from bondage, sing a ^ 
pa;an as they flow. 

" Oh ! lily bride who waiteth in the far off glen 
to greet me, 
I am rushing, rushing to thee in a long-husheil 
rippling song; 
Lift thy petals, my beloved, for I hurry on to | 
meet thee. 
And bathe thy brow in kisses by the sun with- 
held too long." 

" Oh ! the cooling, cooling rain," cried the herb- 
I age in the meadows, 

" Let us drink the balmy sweetness of a draught , 
for months unknown ; 
While in painless peace we slumber, 'neath the 
unaccustomed shadows 
Holding to the generous rain-drops hearts all 
dry and sapless grown." 

" It falls pattering on our leaflets," said the tall 
trees in the forest. 
"It comes dripping down our branches; it 
comes fraught with life and bliss ; 



THE ROBIN REDBREAST. 
When balmy eve and roseate dawn 
Announce the (loral goddess near. 
And over swelling mead and lawn 

The wild flowers, one by one. appear ; 
From privet copse or hawthorn bush 
The linnet pours her dulcet strain, 
\ni\ the wild solo of the thrush 
Leads captive all the warbling train. 
Hut round our doors the redbreast pours 

Her ever plaintive minstrelsy. 
Soft, sweet, and low, as if to show 
How true a little friend should be. 

Touched by the summer's fcr\id breath. 

The flowers, unrtolding, woo the bees ; 
While droop the feathered tribes beneath 

The arches of the forest trees ; 
Then noonday silence reigns o'er all. 

The drooping leaves are hushed, until 
The mil rings out his martial call 

Defiant to the skylark's thrill. 

Then from her trance, with eye askance. 
The redbreast lists their rivalry. 

And pours her note from swelling throat 
To show how true a friend should be. 

Brown, whistling autumn tramps among 

The fruitful trees and golden fields. 
His jocund days are all a song, 

For rich the offering Ceres yields — 
While preens the finch her gorgeous coat 

.Among the swaths of new-mown hay; 
The blackbird sounds his bugle note 

Secluded from the glare of day. 

But still before the cottage door 
The little redbreast we may see ; 

Near, and more near her song we hear. 
To show how true a friend should be. 



yl PLEA FOR THE SONG-BIRDS. 1 49 


The sparrows seek the sheltering eaves, 


A PLEA FOR THE SONG-BIRDS. 


For winter's sigh is on the blast, 




And, with the quickly passing leaves. 


Spare the little singing-birds, oh ! turn your guns 


The birds of passage, too, have passed ; 


away ! 


When swoops the hawk, on treach'rous wing. 


Leave the little singing-birds to sing upon the 


Upon his weak unwary quest. 


spray ! 


With panting heart and trembling wing 


Life is all too full of sighs, of sorrows, and of 


The robin seeks the gentlest breast, 


wrongs- 


And there receives the crumb she gives, 


Spare the little melodists that fill the air with 


'Till spring revisits lawn and lea. 


songs ! 


With looks of love still sings to prove 


Why should they by cruel shots to gloomy death 


How true a little friend can be. 


be buried .' 


Thrice blest the maid whose look and word 


Surely there is not too much of music in the 

world I 
Fowlers, seek some other spoil ; turn your guns 

away, 
Leave the little singing-birds alive upon the 

spray! 


Awake to tenderest sympathies 
The instinct of this lonely bird ! 


By such unerring signs as these 
Her name is placed among the good. 


The cherished fav'rite of the plain. 


She bears to stately womanhood 




The household virtues in her train. 


In the pleasant summer time, when all the woods 


And then her cares the redbreast shares. 


are green. 


A neighbor in the alder tree. 


Would you have a solemn silence brooding o'er 


And pours her lay, the livelong day. 


the scene .' 


To show how true a friend should be. 


Think how great a charm were lost to tender 


JOHN BOYLE. 


morns and eves. 




If no tuneful little throats sang out amid the 






leaves ! 


DEI GRATIA. 


Not to every bird that flies the bliss of song is 


When hawthorn boughs begin to bud 


given. 


In eager green along the way. 


Few they are that bear with them that special 


And merry songsters toss a flood 


gift of Heaven. 


Of melody from spray to spray, 


Sportsmen, if you needs must shoot, choose what 


And in the budded branches play 


else you may. 


The little winds, not chill or loud. 


But leave the little singing-birds alive upon the 


But, softly lifted, softly bowed. 


spray ! 


Making the perches rock and sway ; 




Then, gladsome as the iamb and lark, 
I break from grievous thoughts away — 


Gunsmen, by your own firesides, on many a 

pleasant night. 
Did not music touch your hearts with deep and 

fond delight } 


Forget what's wrong, forget what's dark. 


And see the whole world good and gay. 


When peariy skies break up in blue, 


Heard you not the thrilling song with eager 


Raining out milky, misty gold. 


list'ning ears. 


And all the sweet land through and through 


As it lit your eyes with mirth, or made them 


Is filled with pleasure manifold 


moist with tears ? 


Of growth and light and music bold. 


Ah, but if you truly love the sad or merry 


To close the wxiund and cure the smart. 


strain. 


And strengthen all the thankful heart 


If you'd hear sweet music made by gentle hands 


In joyful praises dawnward rolled ; 


again, 


Then meekly as the milkmaids bring 


If you'd have your hearts still gladdened by the 


Their primrose posies pure and cold, 


poet's lay. 


My soul grows happier— thinking spring 


Spare the little singing-birds that sing upon the 


The smile of him beneath the mould. 


spray! 


WILLIAM WILKIXS. 


T. D. SULLIVAN. 

1 



150 



/•OEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



THE ROBINS SONG. 



Beside a little (.abiii. at the dawning of the day. 
Sang a little robin on a newly-budding spray : 
Inside the humble dwelling were hearts oppressed 

with care. 
But the robin's song of joyanre canie trilling on 
the air. 

" Cheer up," .sang the robin. 
•' Cheer up, cheer up ; .sec 
All the clouds are passing 
For you ai; well as me ! " 

Within the little cabin the question pressing sore 
Was how the wolf of hunger might be driven 

from the door. 
And where to get the money for the rent becom- 
ing due. 
And how to help the children, and what they 
were to do. 

" Cheer up," sang the robin, 
" Cheer up, cheer up ; sec. 
The land grows full of plenty 
For vou as well as me ! " 



The toiler in the cabm knit liis f- 

frown ; 
He thought of all the irueltiis that kept his 
country down ; 
( He prayed aloud to Heaven to end her many 
woes. 
To bless her friends with triumph and humble 
all her foes. 

" Cheer up," sang the robin, 
" Cheer up, cheer up ; see, 
Here comes the day of freedom 
For you as well as me ! " 

r. I). SULLIVA.N. 



THE TROPIC BIRD. 

Not of our forests art thou ! Here the cold 

Of winter soon would mar 
Thy glittering plumage. — From afar. 

From lands of gold. 
And from the streams that roll along beneath 

The quivering lotus bowers, 
Where spreads the palm, and amaranthine llcnvers 

In blushing wreath 
Aye greet the kisses of the Eastern dawn, 

Comest thou to us, bright bird. 



I envy not his heart who, all unstirred. 

Can look upon 
Thy glittering wing, nor give his fancy rein 

To tropic shore and glowing sky. 
Streams, temples, woods, and with a sigh 

Receive it back again. 
For me, I look on thee, and in a dream. 

Before the gazing eye, 
The gorgeous pageant of the East rolls by 
I On Ganges' stream. 

I Gem-studded galleys, and the crimson slaves 
I (Their tunics woven o'er 

With sapphire studs and braids of yellow ore). 
I The cedar waves 

Her emerald boughs above them ; and on high, 
' Throned on the ivory poop. 

The swarthy sultan, with a hoop 

That well might buy 
1 Our barren kingdoms, on his ample brow ; 

And those young Georgian girls — 
The raven tresses looped with sparkling pearls — 

Before him bow. 
All duteous to his nod. The silver oars 

Flash as they hurry on 
The peopled argosies ! 'Tis gone I 

The purple shores 
Are silent, save the speechless melody 

Poured from the myrtle bowers. 
What is't to me that here the hours 

Of daylight flee ? 

CHARLKS G. HALPIME. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALES. 

I You sweet fastidious Nightingales ! 

I The myrtle blooms in Irish vales. 
By Avondhu and rich Lough Lene, 
Through many a grove and bowerlct green. 

I Fair mirror 'd round the loitering skiff. 

I The purple peak, the tinted cliff. 
The glen where mountain-torrents rave 
And foliage blinds their leaping wave. 
Broad emerald meadows fill'd with flow'rs. 
Embosom 'd ocean-bays arc ours 
With all their isles ; and mystic tow'rs 
Lonely and gray, deserted long, — 

! Less sad if they might hear that perfect song I 

What scared ye ? (surely ours of old) 
The sombre Fowl hatch'd in the cold .' 
King Henry's Normans, mail'd and stem, 
Smiters of gallowglass and kem.> 



THE CARDINAL BIRD. I 5 1 


Or, most and worst, fraternal feud, 


Ten times repeated till the sound 


Whicli sad lerne long hath rued ? 


Filled every echoing niche around ; 


Forsook ye, when the Geraldine, 


And all things earliest loved by me, 


Great chieftain of a glorious line, 


—The bird, the brook, the flower, the tree,— 


Was hunted on his hills and slain. 


Came back again, as thus I heard 


And one to France and one to Spain 


The cardinal bird. 


The remnant of the race withdrew ? 




Was it from anarchy ye flew. 


Where maple orchards towered aloft. 


And foul oppression's bigot crew. 


And spicewood bushes spread below, 


Wild complaint, and menace hoarse. 


Where skies were blue, and winds were soft. 


Misled, misleading voices, loud and coarse ? 


I could but go— 




For, opening through a wildering haze. 


Come back, O Birds,— or come at last ! 


Appeared my restless childhood's days; 


For Ireland's furious days are past ; 


And truant feet and loitering mood 


And, purged of enmity and wrong. 


Soon found me in the same old wood. 


Her eye, her step, grow calm and strong. 


—(Illusion's hour but.seldom brings 


Why should we miss that pure delight ? 


So much the very form of things)— 


Brief is the journey, swift the flight. 


Where first I sought, and saw, and heard 


And Hesper finds no fairer maids 


The cardinal bird. 


In Grecian or Devonian glades, 




No loves more true on any shore, 


Then came green meadows, broad and bright. 


No lovers loving music more. 


Where dandelions, with wealth untold. 


Melodious Erin, warm of heart, 


Gleam'd on the young and eager sight 


Entreats you ;— stay not then apart. 


Like stars of gold— 


But bid the Merles and Throstles know 


And on the very meadow's edge. 


(And ere another Maytime go) 


Beneath the ragged blackberry hedge. 


Their place is in the second row. 


'Mid mosses golden, gray and green, 


Come to the West, dear Nightingales . 


The fresh young buttercups were seen. 


The Rose and Myrtle bloom in Irish vales. 


And small spring beauties, sent to be 


WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 


The heralds of anemone ; 




All just as when I earliest heard 


- 


The cardinal bird. 




And on the slope, above the rill 
That wound among the sugar trees. 


THE CARDINAL BIRD. 


She brought a redbird in a cage 


I heard them at their labors still, 


And hung it from my window-sill— 


The murmuring bees ; 


The redbird then was all the rage, 


Bold foragers! that come and go 


And may be still. 


Without permit from friend or foe ; 


I know not— I so long have been ' 


In the tall tulip-trees o'erhead 


Amid the city's dust and din. 


On pollen greedily they fed ; 


But when I was a little child 


And from low purple phlox, that grew 


I greatly loved its wood notes wild. 


About my feet, sipp'd honey-dew. 


Which lured me many a sunny day 


How like the scenes when first I heard 


Through maple forests far away ; — 


The cardinal bird ! 


For years, though, I had seldom hear 




The cardinal bird. 


How like !— and yet ... . The spell grows weak- 




Ah, but I miss the sunny brow— 


A day and then a week pass'd by — 


The sparkling eye— the ruddy cheek ! 


The redbird hanging from the sill 


Where, where are now 


Sang not ; and all were wondering why 


The three who then beside me stood 


It was so still — 


Like sunbeams in the dusky wood .' 


When one bright morning, loud and clear, 


Alas ! 1 am alone. Since then. 


Its whistle smote my drowsy ear. 


They've trod the weary ways of men ; — 



15- 



/'OEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



One on the eve of manhood died ; 
Two in its flush of power and pride. 
Their gjraves are ureen. where first we heard 
The cardinal bird. 

The redbird from the window hung, 

Not long my fancies thus beguiled ; 
Again in maple-groves it sung 

Its wood-notes wild ; 
For, rousing with a tearful eye, 
I gave it to the trees and sky. 
I miss'd so much those brothers three. 
Who walk'd youth's flowery ways with me, 
I could not, dared not. but believe 
It, too. had brothers, that would grieve 
Till in old haunts again was heard 

The cardinal bird. 

W1LLIA.M D. GALLAGHER. 



THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. 

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene — 

The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er 
Held o"er the waves its sheltering arms of green. 

Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner : 
No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, [ice, 

Nor Sims that burned, nor breezes winged with 
Nor jagged rocks (Nature's gray ruins) marred 

The perfect features of that paradise. 

The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge 

Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, 
Rose-bearing shrub, and stately cedars large 

All o'er the land the pleasant prospects till. 
Unnumbered birds tlicir glorious colors fling 

Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze. 
As if the meadow flowers had taken wing 

And settled in the green o'erarching trees. 

Oh ! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong 

That man commits who uninspired presumes 
To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song. 

To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes- 
Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems 

Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays — 
Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems. 

The angels bore thee in thy childhood's days. 

There dwells the bird that to the farther west 
Bears the sweet message of the coming spring ; 

June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast. 
And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. 



While winter prowls around the neighboring seas. 
The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest. 

Then flies away, and leaves his favorite trees 
Unto his brother of the graceful crest. 

Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown. 

There wear a splendor words cannot express ; 
The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown. 

And even the sparrow boa.sts a scarlet dress. 
There partial nature fondles and illumes 

The plainest offspring that her bosom bear-^ . 
The golden robin flies on fiery plumes, 

.And the small wren a purple ruby wears. 

Uirds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, 

Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stra> . 
Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as 
flowers, [decay. 

Come with the flowers, and with the flowers 
The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws 

From his blue neck the azure of the skies. 
And his pale brother of the northern snows. 

Bearing white plumes mirrored with brilliant 
eyes. 

Oft in the sunny mornings have 1 seen 

Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue. 
Meeting in crowds upon the branches green. 

And sweetly singing all the morning thro'. 
.And others, with their heads grayish and dark. 

Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, 
.And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark. 

Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease. 

And diamond birds chirping their single notes. 

Now 'mid the tnmipet-flower's deep blossoms 
seen. 
Now floating brightly on with fiery throats. 

Small-winged emeralds of golden green ; 
And other larger birds with orange cheeks, 

A many-color-painted chattering crowd. 
Prattling for ever with their cur\ed beaks, 

.And through the silent woods screaming aloud. 

I Color and form may be conveyed in words. 

But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains 
That from the throats of these celestial birds 
Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing 
plains. 
There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, 
I r?ut robed in richer raiment than our own ; 
And as the moon smiled on his green retreat. 
The painted nightingale sang out alone. 




-n^cc- (^i/u^c (^^/z^^i^rit^^: 



MY BLIND CANARY. 



Words cannot echo music's winged note, 

One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; 
Tis that strange bird whose many-voiced throat 

Mocks all his brethren ol the woodland bower; 
To whom indeed the gilt of tongues is g^ven. 

The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, 
\ow like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, 

Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove. 

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, 

Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong. 
As if in search of his evanished soul. 

Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; 
And as I wandered on, and upward gazed. 

Half lost in admiration, half in fear, 
I left the brothers wondering and amazed. 

Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. 

Was it a revelation or a dream .' — 

That these bright birds as angels once did dwell 
In starry heaven with Lucifer supreme, 

Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell ; 
That in this lesser paradise they stray. 

Float through its air, and glide its stream along, 
And that the strains they sing each happy day 

Rise up to God like morn and even song. 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
From '* Tk£ Voyage o/ St. BrcndanS' 



Wi BLIND CANARY. 

Sweet singer to my dreams. 
My blind canary, 
I dwell upon the liquid note 
That fills thy little breast and throat, 

.■\nd comes forth piping, full and air\-. 
Reaching far and far away, 
To some dreamy, twilight day 
Whose virgin star with softness beams 
On fairy dell and fairy. 

When night kneel.; down before the West 
Insik-nt prayer. 
That, till the morn unveils her _ye 
In tranquil sleep the world shall lie, 

And serf and king like blessings share ; 
'Tis then thy voice like music falls 
.■\long my heart's deserted halls, 
Whose mould'ring rafters find their guest 
Too sweet to bear. 



Who made thy song so all divine. 
My blind canary .' 
Who taught thy little tongue to sing .' 
Who gave thy voice a heavenly ring ? 

How learnedst thou thus to sweetly vary 
The long vibrations of thy muse. 
And o'er high angels to diffuse 
A lay too fine for hearts like mine. 
So sad and weary } 

What dark-winged fate close-sealed thine eyes. 
My soul's enchanter ? 
A fate, may be, of high decree 
Ordained this world thou shouldst not see. 

Or that our life's a cheat and banter. 

The heart's deep wrong, the maiden's tear. 

The pain, the strife, suspense and fear ; — 

I Our woes to know thou art too wise. 

Sweet heaven haunter. 

Dost sing the joys of warmer climes, 
My little stranger.' 
Those changeless green Canary Isles, 
j Where ever long the summer smiles 
On tamarin and forest ranger } 
On those green isles, lapped by the sea. 
Perennial blooms thy parent tree. 
Far from man's sins, far from his crimes, 
And far from danger. 

How cam'st thou from thy sunny isles. 
In cold to wander.? 
As poets from the heavens are flung 
Mean mortals of this earth among. 

For bread to sing, and starve, and pander. 
Thou minstrel of the stately palms, 
In frosty climes dost sing for alms. 
Where man beguiles with heartless wiles. 
Deceit and slander. 

The yucca and the citron tree 

Thou know'st no more ; 
The guavas sweet and mangosteen 
Will never more by thee be seen ; 

Thy treble note no more will pour 
O'er mango, palm and asphodel. 
And pomegranate, and aureate bell ; 
No more, my bird, thy vision's free 
To see thy native shore. 

There is a morn of brighter beams 
Thine eyes beneath. 
Than ever shone to mortal view 
Or fancy's painting evei drew ; 



'54 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Thy downy form is but the sheath. 
And music, flashing on Its throne 
Of paradise and burnished zone. 
Thy world illumes, and incense teems 
On thy laurel wreath. 

When low the plume of awful death 
In dusk descends 
Upon the couch where life is run. 
And cold oblivion's night begun. 

Ere yet the soul its casement rends, 

The lights of heaven pass in review. 

And waning hopes their pulse renew: 

Such scenes are thine, to which thy breath 

Its sweetness lends. 

! minstrel of the mystic trill. 

And rhyme elastic ! 
There is a singer in my breast 
That rises to thy vocal crest. 

The' long her lute has lain monastic : 
Thy dulcet notes with thee she'tl share 
But since thy song's untinged with care. 
She stoops, and droops, and wanders still 
Amid her dreams dynastic. 

1 dwell in space and nothingness ; 

With thee I'd soar! 
I live in echoes of the past. 
Which from the grave are to me cast, 

Like phantoms on the midnight shore, 
When hope would come, a w-eight is here 
Which crushes pride and lightens fear ; 
For hope's misgivings bring distress 
None can explore. 

To thy far heights with thee I'd rise, 
With soul unchained ; 
To that domain beyond the sky, 
Beyond the clouds that on me lie. 

Beyond what thought has e'er attained. 
O ! there falls a sheen of golden light 
Chasing away the pensive night ; 
It blends with rays of milder glow. 
And bears me from this world below, 
Till faith's maintained. 

HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 



THE BATH OF THE GOLDEN ROBIN. 

The sun beams over Laurel side 

To Ana-lo-mink water. 
And nature smiles in rural pride 

At all the gifts he brought her. 



The merry greenwood branches hold 
More cheer than castle's rafter. 

The gurgling river ne'er is old 
With sly and mellow laughter. 

How welcome is the soothing sound 

Of mingling water speeding 
O'er pebbly bed with laugh and bound. 

Through woodland banks receding! 
Ah ! pleasant 'tis to close one's eyes, 

\ni let the murmurous measure 
With liquid tones of gay surprise 

Fill up the fancy's pleasure. 

But ere my hooded eyes could wake 

Sweet fancy's happy scheming. 
Came Robin Oriole to break 

My sleepless, dulcet dreaming. 
For Rob outshines the glowing day. 

And in the sun's dominions 
Seems like a ball of fire at play 

On elfin sable pinions. 

He glints the orchard's dropping dew. 

Illumes the maple's mazes. 
Dispels the pine-shade passing through. 

And in the sunshine blazes. 
And sweeping to a mossy bank. 

His wings the fiame deliver 
Where fern-encloistered pebbles fiank 

An eddy from the river. 

Here by the stream-indented path. 

As master Rob did spy it. 
Thought he, what chance for Sunday bath ! 

So tempting, cool and quiet. 
He quaintly eyed the little pool, 

And hopt so self-confiding. 
And peeked around, like boy from school. 

To see none near were hiding. 

Then, listening, seemed to mark the tone 

Made by the eddies' patter ; 
But bravely sprang upon a stone. 

And plunged with splash and splatter. 
The bath comes only to his knees. 

But ducking as he flutters, 
Against his throat the water sprees, 

.•\nd round his body sputters. 

It leapt in bubbles, as his crest 
And w-ings were merrily toiling ; 

You'd think his ruffled, fiery breast 
Had set the water boiling. 



CAPTIVITY. 



155 



He stopt short in his merry ways, 

As coy as any lady. 
And, fluttering, sent a diamond haze 

Around his bath so shady ; 

Then popt out on the olive moss 

So softly deep and luscious ; 
Then skimni'd the blue-eyed fiow'rs across. 

And perched within the bushes. 
He perk'd his head like dandy prig, 

Now feeling fine and fresher ; 
And took the air upon a twig. 

That scarcely felt his pressure. 

Full suddenly he scanned his shank. 

As though he had not reckon 'd 
One dip enough, flew to the bank. 

And gayly took a second ! 
Oh ! how the jolly fellow dashed 

The little waves asunder ! 
Dove in his head and breast, and splashed 

His pinion-feathers under. 

Then standing up, as though to rest. 

He looked around discreetly ; 
Again with zest the pool caress'd. 

And made his bath completely. 
Out hopt he where the sun-fed breeze 

Came streamward warmly tender — 
A brilliant piece of Atomies 

Amid this mountain splendor. 

Oh, balmy is the mountain air 

Of May, with sunlight in it ! 
And blest is he from town-wrought care 

Who can in greenwood win it. 
But sun on Robin's radiant coat. 

All drench'd, he fear'd might spoil it. 
So to an alder grove did float 

To make his feathery toilet. 
He pick'd his wings and smooth'd his neck, 

Arrang'd his vest's carnation. 
And flew out without stain or speck 

To dazzle all creation ! 

JOHN SAVAGE. 



CAPTIVITY. 



■Within a lofty palace-tower. 
Embosomed in a fragrant bower 
Of roses, bright with morning dew. 
Softening the sunlight passing through. 
A captive wildwood songster poured 
A lay of such divine accord. 



So dulcet soft and silver clear. 
Unconsciously I paused to hear ; 
And lingering in dreamy mood 
In that enchanted neighborhood. 
Sweet on my soul the melody 
Stole, a remembered pain to be, — 
A song from bitter sources fed, 
That thus my heart interpreted : 

" Oh ! for the forest's cool green shade, 
The freedom of the forest's glade ; 
The old familiar forest trees. 
All glad with sylvan melodies ; 
Their mossy roots with wild flowers gay. 
And many-tinted in the ray 
That struggling thro' the leaves lit up 
With splendor many a flower cup ; 
The rivulet, that, clear and bright. 
Imprisoned held the noon-day light. 
Or to the tranquil Summer moon 
Still carolling its cheerful tune, 
Lulled in their safe and downy nest 
Our young ones' calm, untroubled rest. 



" Oh ! for the broad and bright e.xpanse 
Of Nature's genial countenance ; 
The fresh and fragrant forest air. 
Of life the spirit everywhere 
That breathed, like all-pervading love. 
Diffusing joy around, above. 
Oh ! for the sylvan Summer dawn. 
When friendly stars that, one by one. 
Weary with watching, closed their eyes, 
Withdrew from the awakening skies ; 
In every grove while joyous song 
To song responded, loud and long, — 
Each wild-wood songster's matin lay 
To greet the coming of the Day. 
Oh ! for the pleasant Summer rain. 
Gladdening the sultry woods again , 
The ripe fruit hanging from the tree. 
And berries wild, a banquet free 
For Nature's careless children spread 
From Nature's stores unlimited ; 
Oh ! for the birds, the bees, the flowers, 
The sharers of those happy hours." 

He ceased, yet still the plaintive sound 
Seemed lingering in the air around. 
Diffusing through it a vague sense 
Of doubt, with saddening influence. 
That dimmed like clouds the radiant day- 
Dull clouds no sun could drive away. 



1=^6 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Poor captive !— nature made in vain 

His heritage, her wide domain : 

In vain his wings with power endowed 

To pierce the lieaven-ascending cloud ; 

One grain of wheat from out the sheaf, 

From boundless forests one poor leaf. 

Was counted bounty liberal 

From him to whom he gave his all ; 

His (light, that might have sought the stars. 

Curbed by his prison's gilded bars. 

And yet his master held him dear, 

Well pleased his wild sweet songs to hear; 

And often doubtless would requite 

The efforts of his favorite 

With fond caresses ; and should death 

Untimely still his slender breath. 

Perchance a silent tear would shed 

On his lost songster's lowly bed, — 

The meed of freedom sacrificed 

To please a thoughtless egoist. 

Child of the woods ! the splendor rare 
His eye that greeted everywhere. 
To him seemed tlull and faded when 
He thought of his own native glen. 
For his own native haunts he pined. 
And fellowship with his own kind ; 
For freedom, heritage of all 
Who breathe the vital air and call 
Their common Father Him who gave 
Life both to tyrant and to slave. 
Lacking this wealth he still was poor. 
Rich in all else that could allure, — 
Alas ! no splendor can illume 
The darkness of the captive's doom I 

.M.\RV J. SERRANO. 



THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 
Emblem of hope ! enchanted llower. 

Still breathe around thy faint peifume. 
Still smile amid the wintry hour. 

And boast, even now, a spring-tide bloom : 
Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, 

Lone lingerer in the icy vale. 
Of smiles that hailed the morning beam. 

And sighs more sweet for evening's gale ! 

Still are thy green leaves whispering 
Low sounds to fancy's ear. that tell 

Of mornings when the wild bee's wing 
Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell ! 



I With thee the graceful lily vied. 

i As summer breezes waved her head ; 

{ And now the snow-drop at thy side 

Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. 
I 

I Well dost thou know each varying voice 
I That wakes the seasons, sad or gay ; 
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice. 

And wintry robin's dearer lay. 
Sweet flower ! how happy dost thou seem, 

'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost ; 
j While gathering beauty from each beam. 

No hue, no grace, of thine is lost ! 

I Thus hope, mid life's severest daj-s, 

I Still soothes, still smiles away despair ; 

j Alike she lives in pleasant rays. 

And cold affliction's winter air: 
I Charmer alike in lordly bower 

And in the hermit's cell, she glows ; 
' The poet's and the lover's llower, — 
I The bosom's everlasting rose ! 

JOHN ANSTKR. 



TO THE MOCKING BIRD 
Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool 
Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe .' 
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and jibe ; 
Wit, sophist, songster, yorick of thy tribe. 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school ; 
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe ; 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule! 
For such thou art by day — but all night long 
Thou pour'st a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice and wrong. 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 



BLOOMING OUT OF TIME. 
Poor flow'rets of the springtime that bloomed 
not in your season. 
Unseemly your unfolding 'mid the summer's 
royal cheer ! 
The sweet, red roses question — and, I ween, with 
amplest reason — 
" O me ! our frail, pale sisters — but where- 
fore are ye here ? " 



THE PLAINT OF THE WILD FLOWER. 



157 



Hide your wan, wan faces, the radiant roses 
stiame ye ! 
Blush for your belatement as mortals blush 
for crime ! — 
But O my shy, sad flow'rets ! can I have heart to 
blame ye ? 
Must I crush your tender lives out for bloom- 
ing out of time ? 

KATHERINE E. CONWAr. 



LINES TO AN EXOTIC PLANT. 

Poor exile from the sunny land 

Where Nature's wise and friendly care 
First made thy fragile leaves expand 

Beneath the warm and vital air, — 
What adverse fate thy tender bloom 

Transferred to an ungenial soil. 
Where paler suns thy days illume. 

And ruder airs thy sweets despoil ? 

Of all thy kindred thou most fair ! 

Recipient of a fatal grace, — 
In solitary pride to wear 

The fleeting glories of thy race. 
The parent flower whose life with thine 

In sweet mysterious union blent. 
That drew to feed thy bloom divine. 

Its virtue from each element, — 

When southern airs with fragrance fraught 

Thy petals stir, do they respond 
To tidings from far regions brought. 

That wake the memory of that bond ? 
Do dreams of that evanished time 

Within thy calyx hover now, 
And memories of thy natal clime 

Thy cold existence still endow.? 

Do memories alone remain. 

Or in thy cup some atom lie. 
Left by warm drops of tropic rain 

That sprang to kiss thee from the sky .' 
Inwoven with thy being glows 

The genial sunshine still, that first 
Thy folded petals bade unclose, 

And into perfect beauty burst .' 

And when the pallid day is past 
Of this cold hemisphere, do gleams 

From southern constellations cast. 
Revisit thee again in dreams ? 



Do glowing noons and purple eves 

In soft reflected splendor shine. 
With shadows of broad tropic leaves. 

Of palm and interlacing vine ? 

Alas ! for thee the vine and palm 

Shall bud no more ; no more be heard 
By thee amid the airless calm 

Of golden noons the humming bird. 
The glancing wings of butterflies 

With southern splendors lit, shall gleam 
For thee no more ; thy native skies 

With light eclipsed, for thee, shall beam. 

And then a little while shall bloom. 

The glory of a hostile soil ; 
A while shall waste thy rich perfume 

On winds that woo thee to despoil ; 
Then, chill'd by Death's untimely frost. 

For tropic skies no more shalt pine ; 
But — odor, grace and beauty lost — 

Content, thy barren state resign. 

MARY J. SERRANO. 



THE PLAINT OF THE WILD FLOWER. 



I was not born for the town. 
Where all that's pure and humble'stroddendown; 

My home is in the woods — 
The over-arching cloistered solitudes. 

Where the full-toned psalm 
Of Nature at her matin broke the calm 

Of cloudy pillowed Night, 
With calmness made more visible by light : 

And when the Minstrel noon 
Made every young stem spring, as to a tune ; 

Aye, where our joys were led 
To suit the fluted measures of the orb o'erhead. 

I ant forlorn 
Here mid the waking jargon of the day ; 
Noon brings no light, no song of birds at play ; 
My plume is in the dust : I pine and pray 
For the old woods, the grand old woods away 

Where I was born. 



Here I am dying ; I want room ; 
Room for the air of heaven, for the bloom 

Of never-tiring nature ; room [boom 

For the verdure-freighted clouds, and thunder 

That sounds relief to drouthy earth ; 
Room for the sunlight and the exhaustless mirth 



i5« 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Of laughing July's breeze, 
Untangling the meshes of the branching trees ; 

Room for cool night and ruddy day. 
For peace, for health, — aught naturally gay ; 

Room to take vital breath 
And look on anything not painted death ! 

I am forlorn— 
I, who from the earliest golden age. 
Sat by the regal oak's foot, like a page. 
And, mantled in moss, at the close of day 
Slept by my prince, in the woods far away 

Where 1 was born. 



111. 

Here is no room — no room 
For even a flower's life ; nothing but a tomb, 

O. forest gods ! look down. 
And shield your other offspring from the town ! 

Ah! would that 1 could die I sigh, 

Where o'er my wreck the forest-flowers might 

And clustering shrubs anear 
Weave dirges low, like leaves above my bier ; 

Where kindly chestnut-leaves 
Would shade the woe of every plant that grieves. 

And e'en the oak's head [dead. 

Let fall the tears of dew when his poor page is 

1 am forlorn : 
Night brings no darkness and the day no light ; 
Noon brings no noise to vary my affright ; 
I'm dying 'neath the city's loathsome blight, 
Far, O my mother Nature I from thy sight. 
Far from thy earth, thy heaven, and the wood- 
land bright 

Where 1 was born. 

JOHN SAVAGE. 



TO THE WIND-FLOWER. 

Sweet, winsome flower that decks the wold. 
Despite the snowdrift's chilling cold, 
Dost thou to March's kiss unfold 

Thy petals pure .' 
Or hast thou wakened at the song 
The redbreast trills, as bold and strong 
Through early groves he wings along, 

Of summer sure ? 

Nay, soft as is thy perfume thrown, 
So is thy mystic coming known ; 
Thou bloomest where the winds have blown, 
A beauteous thing ! 



That we may know when storms are rife. 
And tawdry joys fade in their strife. 
The sweetest flowers of human life 

From trouble spring. 

Thus thou within this tangled dell. 
Where wildling woodsy spirits dwell. 
Hast cast the magic of thy spell 

O'er all the scene. 
Like some fair maid with face demure. 
Yet witching glance from eye-depths pure. 
Whose every aspect doth allure 

With grace serene. 

Sure blest, sweet flower, is lot of thine. 
And doubly blest compared with mine ; 
Thou seest content each sun decline. 

Nor askest why. 
I dumbly watch youth's rosy years. 
As each 'twixt meteor hopes and fears 
Trembles and fades, and disappears. 

In leaden sky. 

But e'en upon thy tender leaf 
I spy a dew-drop tear of grief — 
Would human sorrows were as brief. 

And, oh, as few ! 
Yet oft what seemelh gruesome ill 
Is but the dew our souls distil 
To keep us sweet against our will. 

And fair to view. 

ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 



THE SUN AND THE FLOWERS. 

Come hither with song and with glances bright ; 

Sing to the Glory who walks this way 
Forever unchanged the arching height. 
The Helper, the Maker of man's delight. 

The Father of Morning, whose piercing ray 

Illumes tlie shores where the darkness lay ! — 
Sing to the Softener of grief, the Sower, 

The Ripener, the Reaper, the Lord of day. 
The Slayer of death and the Life bestower ! 

■VVhen Light withdrew from the Darkness old. 
And the fresh blue heavens and the cr>'stal sea 

Laughed in the primal Morning's gold. 

Earth's roi-ky wastes lay stark and cold. 
Without voice of zephyr or streamlet's glee. 
Then the golden Sun smote the barren lea 



THE A UTUMX LEAF. 



159 



And the shores and the hills and the plains and 
passes. 
And the birthday was of the shrub and tree, 
Of the painted flowers and the fragrant grasses. 

The clouds arose from the ocean's breast 
And fell on the deserts in silver showers. 

The streams awoke in their sweet unrest, 

And the new-born winds at the sun's behest 
Sang in the leaves of the springing bowers. 
Till the waste, transformed, was a world of 
flowers, [glisten, 

Where the glory of light from the dews w6uld 
And they whispered sweet in the windy hours 

With no eyes to see them, no ears to listen. 

Then the Maker of Gods^ who ruled the .span 

Of the starry kingdoms, the sun. the earth. 
To the uttermost spaces ere time began. 
Of the red clay wrought him the primal Man. 

Of the bright flowers fashioned the woman's 
birth ; 

For the joy of their bodies and hours of mirth 
He gave them the grape and the wine to follow. 

The game of the forest, the fish of the firth. 
And the corn and the fruit of the plain and hollow. 

But best for them and the soul's delight, [spun. 

The flower-web of glory round the earth he 
The purple of Heather, the Mead-blooms bright. 
The May and the delicate woodbine's white. 

The Daisy fresh, and the darling One. 

The hyacinth young ; and a splendor shone 
From the bloom in meadow and wood-glade stilly. 

And the garden glowed in the golden Sun, 
With the Pink and the Rose and the saffron Lily. 

Come hither, come hither, with garlands meet 

For youth's bright brow and for Age's head. 
Of the fairest flowers that the mornings greet 
With perfumed breath and with kisses sweet 

In glen and hollow and garden bed ; 

For Summer is come and the Winter's sped 
From moor and mountain, from field and forest. 

And the birds in the greenwood woo and wed, 
And the blossoms laugh where the frosts lay 
hoarest. 

Come hither, come hither, our song to weave 
Of joy, where the old Oaks branching rise ! 
Under their shadows let no heart grieve, 
I-et love meet love and its truth believe, 

And laugh meet laughter ! — while sunny skies 
Brighten the sward and the sweet hour flies,— 



From fell and forest, by spring and river. 

From brake and bank where the dewdrop lies, 
Gather the garlands and praise the Giver ! 

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 
— From ^^Blanid.^"^ 



THE AUTUMN LEAF. 

The Summer sun has passed away, and o'er 

the mountain's head 
A diadem of golden hue is beautifully spread ; 
A rich and varied mass of leaves, where ev'ry 

brilliant tinge 
In mingled shade around the pines is shining 

like a fringe. 

But hark ! the wailing wind is heard, it sweeps 

in murmurs by ; 
A thousand rainbow-colored leaves go whirling 

down the sky; 
They bid the setting sun farewell, whilst chilled 

with evening breath 
They fall around the parent tree, still beautiful 

in death. 

The fallen leaf, the fallen leaf, what hand can 

now restore 
The life that filled its slender vems, the blood it 

knew before ? 
Its beauty all has passed away, its lonely hour 



And man. who blessed its summer shade forgets 
that it was dear. 

A solemn silence lulls the scene, the ancient 

woods are hushed ; 
The leaves have filled the rocky cleft, where late 

the fountain gushed ; 
Against the clear, cold azure sky the withered 

boughs appear. 
Where, mournfully, some lingering leaf hangs 

desolate and sere. 

The colored web vv'hich Autumn weaves, of 
purple and of gold. 

In loom of blue and crimson tints, across the 
vale is rolled. 

Ah ! who will give us back the sun, the fountain 
and the shade. 

The singing birds that fluttered there, the min- 
strels of the glade .' 



i6o 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



Alas, the leaf which on the branch in verdant 

beauty hung. 
Its Summer hour of fragrance o'er, upon the 

ground is flung; 
It never more, refreshed with dew. the radiant 

sun shall see, 
Nor with its kindred bloom again upon their 

parent tree. 

The moaning wind is heard at eve its requiem 
to wail. 

Where, with its brethren of the glen, it slum- 
bers in the vale ; 

And birds that love the genial sun in farewell 
numbers sing. 

The Autumn leaf, the yellow leaf, the nursling 
of the Spring. 

But Spring shall come, and every flower again 
be lifted up, 

Ihe tulip, like a pearl, shall keep the dewdrop 
in her cup ; 

.\round the cottage home shall bloom the blue- 
bell and the rose, 

.\nd trees that drooped in winter winds a thou- 
sand buds disclose. 

Ah ! thus when Death shall close the scene, may 

Heaven's eternal spring 
Around the soul her fadeless wreaths, her sacred 

roses fling ; 
.\nd, when she looks in triumph back, will not 

her world of bliss 
Seem happier for the gloom that rests on all 

thats found in this.' 

EUW.\RD PURCELL. 



A NOVEMBER DAY. 

.'\s in some day of autumn weather 
When winds are still and clouds are low. 

And the bare branches crouch together 
And Nature's pulse is beating slow ; 

When heaven is far, and earth anear. 

All in her misty shrouding drear, — 

Her old blood cold ; then suddenly 
Some light breeze stirs the hea\T air. 

The dim clouds break, — an azure sky 
Lies far above, so soft and fair. 

And in that tiny patch of blue, 

Lo ! all the ways of spring we view : 



The young leaves' stir, the streamlet's rush, 
The little breeze that swiftly passes, 

The buoyant cadence of the thrush. 
The early dew on tender grasses. 

The pale young flower beneath our feet, 

A thousand perfumes, vague and sweet. 

What though cold winter lives around 
In blighted grass and songless branches? 

What though the dead leaves strew the ground ? 
Up there they swing in merrj' dances : 

To us somehow the spring hath come. 

Though earth below is dark and dumb. 

So in some still, sad. pulseless life. 
That thus its burden drear is bearing. 

When the tired heart, no more at strife 
With its poor fate, resolves on wearing 

An attitude of patient calm — 

Life's music tuned to minor psalm ; — 

When like dead flowers our hopes arc dead. 

And all is dull and wintry season. 
All fancies flown, all young dreams fled. 

No guide henceforth but sober reason ; 
So through our clouds of apathy 
Upbreaks a glimpse of ecstasy. 

It may be but a few leaves throbbing 

Against the bosom of the shy. 
It may be but a low breeze sobbing 

In a gold twilight's mystery. 
The flutter of a swift bird's wings. 
Or some note in the song he sings. 

And with a rush of fresh desire 

Our rapt eyes see. afar. — afar. 
As through the glow of sunset fire. 

The gates of paradise ajar. 
To the fair land of promise leading. 
Where sweet gales meet us fresh from Eden. 

All great things possible then seem, 

.W\ hopes fulfilled, more grand and glorious 
Than ever came into the ken 

Of the dim life we thought before us ; 
I Transfigured, raised above our will- 
Cur Canaan viewed from Pisgrh's hill. 

I The commonplace, the low, the mean. 

The weary, dull-day life we live. 
The petty beings we have been 

The thoughts untrue to words we give. 
Are blotted out, and for a space 
What we would be for once we face. 



THE GOLDEN SEA. 



We breathe in that diviner Spring, 
We live a life that's all-sufficing; 

And what angelic harpists sing 

Falls on our ears in strains enticing 

Bathe in the light above this mist 

In which we live not, but exist, — 

Feel some prophetic thrill of bliss. 
Hear some sweet whisper in our ears, 

" It will not be for aye like this. 
Thy crown lies in the coming years. 

Life is not all a sober burden 

For unto each must come some guerdon." 

MARY GEOGHEGAN. 



SUN-GLOW. 

Lo, the sun-light, and tlie south-wind, and the 
morning : 
Lo, the fragrance and the glory of the day ; 
You, who sneer at life with wild and bitter scorn- 
ing ; [way. 
You, who gather thorns and thistles by the 

Lo, the bird-songs, and the blossoms, and the 
beauty : 
Lo, the purple and the amber of the sky ; 
You, who scoff at hope that clings to toil and 
duty; 
You, who pass love's shining gifts so coldly by. 



Lo, the music of the robins and the beeches ; 

Lo, the gladness of the willow, and the larch ; 
You, who wander in life's gray and windless 
reaches ; 

You, who in despair's sad army sadly march. 

Lo, the cornfields, with the sun-glow on them 
falling ; 
Lo, the bounty of the ocean and the land ; 
Lo, the valleys to the hill-tops bravely calling ; 
These are free to willing brain and ready 
hand. 

THOMAS S. COLLIER. 



IN THE GARDEN. 
Past the town's clamor is a garden full 
Of loneness and old greenery ; at noon [croon, 
When birds are hushed, save one dim cushat's 
A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool 
Great branches; basking roses dream and drop 
A petal, and dream still; and summer's boon 
Of mellow grasses, to be levelled soon 
By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop 
At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees. 
Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day, 
And know all night in dusky placidness 
It lies beneath the summer, while great ease 
Broods in the leaves, and every light wind's stress 
Lifts a faint odor down the verdurous way. 

EDWARD DOWDEN. 



THE GOLDEN SEA. 



Lo, the distance, and the star-light, never weary ; 

Lo, the river, seaward rushing, brave and true ; , r , , , 

You, who see the weeks keep growing dull and , ^ '°"S for the golden sea ! 

, r J A song for the Wide and wondrous mam 

dreary ; [to do. I j, / ■ , f , , , 

xr . ^ J If , , r or the wmd-swept waves or the eolden ■, 

You, who hnd no work for your strong hands ~, ^ ,■ , , ' 

■' *" That sway on the sunlit lea I 

Lo, the future, grand with purpose, and en- 
deavor ; [emprise ; 
Lo, the present, rich with struggle, and 
You, who moan and pray for some oblivious 
never, [eyes. 
Shutting out each noble promise from your 



Lo, the hand-clasps, and the watching, and the 

waiting ; 

Lo, the splendor and the faithfulness of love ; 

You, who garner to your souls the senseless 

hating, [prove. 

That at last a fierce, destroying flame will 



i-ay ^ 

Over the mighty deep, 
Over the waste of the waters vast. 
The stormy rack and the roaring blast 

In Nemesis-fury sweep. 

Woe for the ships that gave 
Their priceless freight to the trait'rous tide. 
And dared, in their boasted strength, to glide 

Over the slumbering wave I 

Woe for the storm-rent sails. 
For the riven masts, and the parted rope., 
And the human power that vainly copes 

With the strength of ocean gales I 



i6^ 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



But siiijj for llie wave of gold — 
For the sliming billows that whisf>er low 
To the suinnier breezes that come and go. 

Uf their magical wealth untold. 

Sweet store of the sunlit lea! 
Ah. richest treasures of golden grain ! 
Ah, priceless freight of the creaking wain, 

Of the land's proud argosy ! 

From heaven that smiles above. 
From the golden touch of the royal sun- 
The shining sea of the vale hath won 

The rarest gift of his love. 

For he came in regal pride 
To bathe in the dewy and verdant sea. 
And lo ! on the breast of the fragrant lea, 

A bright Pactolus-tide ! 

Gone was the emerald hue, 
But over the wind-swept meadows rolled 
The wondrous billows of shining gold. 

With diamond crests of dew. 

While ships to death go down. 
The golden waves of the plain are rife 
With glorious dower of wealth and life. 

Their glad explorer's crown. 

This is the priceless boon 
Of the golden sea that the sickle cleaves — 
The billowy heaps of the banded sheaves, 

Upreared in the summer's noon. 

Then swell the harvest glee ! 
Of gleaner's carol and reaper's strain 
Be this the ringing and glad refrain, 

" All hail to the golden sea ! " 

HARRIKI- M. SKIDMORE. 



THE CLOVER. 



Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
And the pansies and pinks that the summertime 

throws 
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays 
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiny days; 
But what is the lily, and all of the rest 
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his breast 
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and 

dew 
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew." 



I never set eyes on a clover-field now, 
I Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, 

But my childhood comes back jest as clear ai. 
I as plain 

As the smell of the clover I'm snifTm' again; 
1 And 1 wunder away in a bare-footed dream. 

Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that 

gleam 
1 With the dew of the dawn of the morning of lo\ . 

Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm wecpin'abf)\ ' 

And so 1 love the clover— it seems like a part 
Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my hart . 
And wharever it blossoms, oh. there let me bow 
.\nd thank the good God as I'm thankin' him 
now; [die. 

And I pray to him still for the strength when ! 
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye. 
And loviii'ly nestle my face in its bloom 
While my soul slips away in a breth of perfuuit. 

! JAMES WHIICU.MU RILEY. 



WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN. 

I When the frost is on the punkin and (he fodder - 

in the shock. 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of lii 

struttin" turkey-cock. 
And the clackin'of the guineys. and the cluckn 

of the hens. 
I And the rooster's halleylooyer as he tiptoes ■ 
I the fence ; 

O it's then's the time a feller is a-feelin' at 1 

best. 
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night 

peaceful rest. 
.As he leaves the house bare-headed, and goes 

out to feed the stock. 
When the frost is on the punlyin and the fodder's 

in the shock. 

I There's something kind o' harty-like about the 
atmosphere 
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin" 
I frost is here — 

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms 

on the trees. 
And the inumble of the huniniin' birds and 

buzzin' of the bees ; 
I But the air's so appetizin' ; and the landscape 
j through the haze 

Of a crisp and sunny mornin' of the airly autumn 
days— 



Is a pictur" that no painter has the colorin' to 

mock — 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the shock. 

The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the corn, 
And the raspin of the tangled leaves, as golden 

as the morn ; 
The stubble in the furries— kind o' lonesome 

like, but still 
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they 

growed to fill ; 
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper 

in the shed ; 
The hosses in their stalls below — the clover 

overhead ! — 
O, it sets my heart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a 

clock. 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's 

in the shock ! 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 



MORNING. 

the beautiful feet of 



i6; 



Heard through the summer trees, thus does she 

sing beside him : 
" Wake ! for the darkness flies ; wake ! for the 

world is waiting ; 
Life is begun anew, with all its promise before 

you ; 
Thine are the golden hours that fill the hand of 

the Present. 
Wake ere the moments pass, and gathering 

strength from prayer. 
Light on the altar of life a lamp that shall brighten 

the future ! " 

j Hers are the rosy lips that bend by the sick man's 
j pillow, 

Cooling with lingering breath the flush on the 

heated forehead. 
Waking the smile of hope that fled in the dark 

night-watches, 
And kissing the restless eyes like touch of a swift- 
j winged blessing. 

Memory holds the past, and shrouding her face 

in darkness. 
Sits by its silent doors and waits the coming of 

evening, 
Then on its golden hinge turning the shadowy 

portal 
Bears to the waiting heart the wealth of its 

buried treasure ; 



Fair on the eastern hills : 

the Morning, 
Waking the psalm of life and the matin hymn of j But clasping her sister's hand, the angel who 

labor ; ' i guards the future — 

Touching with heavenly fire the looming moun- I Hope, with her shining hair— walks through the 

tains of shadow. | rose-bright hours. 

Till the hidden landscape flames in a sudden | Cleaving the morning air ; then lifting her radi- 



blaze of glory : 



ant pmions. 



Calling with earnest voice the breeze that -slept j R'ses above the clouds, and pierces the blue 



in the valleys. 
Till it beats with a quicker pulse, dashing the 
mist before it. 



beyond them. 



Thus when the sunset sleeps on the old man's 
^ , , , . , ■, f , , .1 silver tresses. 

Over her laughmg eyes the veil of the dawn is ; g^^^j^^ ^-^ ^.^^^^ ^^,^^_ ^^ j^^„^ ^^.^^^^ Memor>- 

,,. ,. °^ '"^', ! waits him, 

Hidmg the sudden light that erst would startle ^^i^; -^ ^^e crown he won in the davs 

and blind us. ' departed 

Shading her blushing face, till, casting its veiling B^^ i„ ^^^ ^-^^ ^^^^^^ y^^^^ stands on the 



from her 

She shines on our dazzled eyes, the fairest queen 
of the hours. 

Hers are the gentle hands that tap at the dream- 
er's window, 

Chasing the shapes away that people his land of 
shadows. 

While, with a voice that' falls like the far-off 
ripple of fountains 



threshold of manhood. 
Daring with eagle glance the blaze of its morning 

sunshine, 
Hope on her shining wings pierces the way 

before him, 
Flushing the path with light that soon will be 

gone forever. 
Pointing to bliss beyond, and urging his swift 

feet onward. 

MARY E. BI.AKE. 



1 64 



POEAfS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



TWILIGHT. 

Out of the pearly gates and golden portals of 

sunset, 
Crushing the amber light in the shade of her 

night-black tresses, 
Weaving with subtle hands the mystical web of 

darkness. 
Comes through the quiet air the shadowy form 

of Twilight. 
Wondrously fair is she as the star that gleams on 

her bosom. 
Holding the splendid robe that airily floats around 

her; 
Wondrously fair is she, with eyes that are pure 

as heaven, — 
Eyes from whose quiet light the blessing of 

peace ascending 
Falls on the cares of the day, hushing them all 

to silence. 

Out of the pearly gates she leads to their old- 
time places 
Feet that are silent now, — forms that have passed 

forever ; 
Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit 

beside us. 
Holding our hands once more, speaking from 

soul to spirit. 
Back to the white-haired sire she brings the 

days of his childhood. 
Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish 

faces, — 
Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes 

and his longings 
Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful 

walls of the future. 
Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of j 

children 
(Grown to be women and men) clinging again 

around her. 
Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet 

churchyard. 
And shows her the golden chain completed and 

clasped in heaven. 

But to the young man's eyes it shows in the dawn 

of promise 
The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie 

before him ; 
Flashes of love and fire, xictories worth the 

winning. 
Honor and wealth and fame, the strife and the 

crown of glory. 



So does she weave her spells, till on her soniLii^ 

garments 
Crushed and hidden away lie all the roses of 

sunset. 
And a quick arrow, shot from the silver quiver 

of moonbeams, 
Drops through the dim gray trees to tell us the 

night approaches ; 
Then in her shadowy wings folding the gifts she 

brought us,— 
Dreams of the beautiful past, hopes of the beau- 
tiful future, — 
Like to a dream herself departs the mystical 

Twilight. 

MARY K. ULAKE. 



NIGHTFALL. 

On wood and wave the gathering shadows fall. 
The trees are whispering in the twilight gray 
As if one last " good-night " they fain would say 
Ere darkness shrouds them in her dusky pall. 
Now one by one broad oak and poplar tall 
Melt into shade, the golden-mantled day 
Past the hushed lakelet softly steals away. 
And solemn night sits silently on all. 
But hark I the night-wind slowly creeping by 
With low, dull moan the spreading darkness fills, 
And slumbering nature wakes to sympathy — 
For one and all the oaks and poplars sigh. 
And floating faintly o'er the far-off hills 
A deep sad voice conies sobbing from the sea. 

EDWARD HARDING. 



THE WOODS. 



Hail, old woods ! — primeval woods ! 

Nature's holy solitudes ; 
From age to age. Religion's everlasting pile ! 
Deep in your midst she raised her vast abode. 

Her temple roofed and arched by God, 
And solemnly lighted like cathedral aisle. 
I never hear your clustered branches stirred 
By the hushed anthem of the summer wind. 

But call to mind 
The solemn hour Jehovah's voice was heard 

Passing from tree to tree. 
As glides the organ's grand solemnity, — 



NATURE'S ANSWER. 



Summer's bright blush from earth took instant 
flight, [blight ! 

And Autumn threw around her yellow robe of 
Altar and temple, both in one— all hail ! 
The sun on ye like incense pours his light. 
And clouds, in passing, weave that holy veil 
That screens your inmost shrine from mortalsight. 
A^es have past ; and human eyes 
Have closed in their eternal sleep ; 
Yet ne'er hath one beheld those mysteries. 
Like sacred rites, locked in your bosom deep ; 
But, like the Ark of Cov'nant, that within 
Preserved the record dark of human sin, 
The Law, the Manna, and the Rod, 
The proofs and miracles of Israel's God, 
Age upon d^^tyc've shut from mortal eye. 
The phantom-secrets that within ye lie! 

How softly rests the sun upon ye now. 
As tho' all heaven were open to the view, 
And its bright Hierarchy showered below, 
From 'neath their waving wings of golden hue, 
All light they borrowed from th' Eternal throne, 

When veiled before their God they stand, 

Each casting down His burning zone 
The fadeless starlight of that Better Land ! 

Lo ! silence everywhere, 
Pillowed on downy waves of sleeping air ; 

Silence, such as swayed 
Creation when God sent his Fiat forth. 
Commanding Light to be, and Light was made, 
While guilty Darkness fled the face of Earth ! 

Temples of eldest Nature, fare-ye-well ! 
Cathedrals God-made ! ye whose incense streams. 

Like adoration's soul 
At sound of matin or of vesper bell. 
When choiring harmonies roll 
'Mid the organ's swell. 
And Heaven reveals itself to Worship's dreams ! 
Farewell! ye Temples piled and arched by Him 
Whose praise for aye shall echo 'mid your tra- 
cery dim. 
Not dark ; for while the Sun looks down. 
Image of God's fadeless crown. 
Or, while the lady Moon 
Lights up her cresset for the midnight-noon, 
Upon your shrines shall burn that holy ray, 
Earth's foretaste of a distant — endless day ! 
Holy of Holies ! bared to Man, adieu ! 
When Nature consecrates the heart — that heart's 
with You ! 

EDWARD i!ATURIN. 



NATURE'S ANSWER. 

I stood alone upon the white cliff's verge ; 
The great blue sea came rolling in below ; 
I heard the murmur of the restless surge ; 
I watched the ripples melting into snow. 
A few white clouds that floated o'er the blue 
Deepened the azure splendor of the sky ; 
Thro' fields of golden corn the south wind flew, 
And ripples tracked it as it wandered by. 
I could have thought that Nature lay asleep ; 
It was the hush of noon when ail things rest ; 
The measured flow and reflow of the deep 
Were rhythmic pulsings of her mighty breast. 
And when the poppies fluttered, and I heard 
The rustling wind — it was her voice that stirred. 



Her breath was mine : I breathed and was content; 
Her life was flowing in a boundless flood ; 
No need to ask what Nature's being meant ; 
My answer was the pulsing of her blood, 
I only knew that all around me moved 
A vast eternal self-sufticing life ; 
The faintest flutter of the poppies proved 
How deep a harmony controlled the strife. 
Somewhere in woodland depths the cooing dove 
Sent from afar this message to my soul : 
' When life is light and liberty and love, 
Life is itself its own supremest goal." 
The south wind whispered as it fanned my hair : 
"Be strong — trust Nature — wake from thy 
despair." 

I heard a voice that was not of the wind, 

A laughing sound that was not of the sea ; 

It came again, — I turned and looked behind, — 

A little child was standing near to me. 

Her hair was golden as the sun in heaven. 

Her arms were browner than the sunburnt wheat; 

The ruddy flush that life and health had given, 

Rivalled the scarlet poppies at her feet. 

She looked at me from eyes of heaven's own blue, 

That like the sky, glowed with a sunny smile, — 

A smile of joy and innocence, that knew 

No tear of misery — no cloud of guile. 

I bade her tell the secret of her bliss. 

She raised her lips and answered— with a kiss. 

But the wind answered as it rustled by. 
And the waves answered from the rocks below,— 
There came this answer from the azure sky. 
This from the ocean's fringe of melting snow : 



1 66 



POEMS OF XA TURE AND PLACES. 



•• She is our sister, and our hearts are glad, 
For we are Nature's children, and our breath 
Is Natures breath,— whose eyes are only sad 
What time she weaves new life from threads of 

death. ■ 
And so I learned that joy is all around, 
That whoso will can make that joy his own ; 
I learned of every tint and every sound 
That life and happiness are theirs alone. 
The central currents of whose being glide 
In harmony with Nature's ample tide, 

EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 
From *^ Naturg Lost and Funnd^^ 



THE SEA. 



Ebb and flow ! ebb and flow ! 
By basalt crags, by caverns low. 
Through rifted rocks, o'er pebbly strand. 
On windy beaches of naked strand ' 

To and fro ! to and fro ! 

Chanting ever and chanting slow, 

Thy harp is swept with liquid hands, 

And thy voice is breathing of distant lands! 

Sweet and low I sweet and low ! 

Those golden echoes I surely know ; 

Thy lips are rich with the lazy south. 

And the tuneful icebergs have touched thy mouth. 

Come and go ! come and go ! 

The sun may shine and the winds may blow, 

But thou wilt forever sing, O sea ! 

And I never, ah ! never, shall sing like thee ! 

FITZ JAMES O'BRIEN. 



BY THE SEA. 

Bur\' me by the sea. 
When on my heart the hand of death is prest, 
If the soul lingereth ere she join the blest. 

And haunts awhile her clay. 
Then 'mid the forest shades 1 would not lie. 
For the green leaves like me would droop and die. 

Nor 'mid the homes of men. 
The haunts of busy life, would I be laid : 
There ever was I lone, and my vexed shade 

Would sleep unquiet then ; 
The surging tide of life might overwhelm 
The shadowv boundaries of the silent realm. 



No sculptured marble pile 
To bear my name be reared upon my breast,— 
Beneath its weight my free soul would not rest; I 

But let the blue sky smile, 
The changeless stars look lovingly on me. 
And let me sleep beside this sounding sea : 

This ever-beating heart 
Of the great Universe ! here would the soul 
Plume her soiled pinions for the final goal, 

Ere she should thence depart ; 
Here would she fit her for the high abode. 
Here by the sea she would be nearer God. 

I feel his presence now : 
Thou mightiest of his vassals, as I stand 
And watch beside thee on the sparkling sand. 

Thy crested billows bow ; 
And as thy solemn chant swells thro' the air, 
My spirit, awed, joins in thy ceaseless prayer. 

Life's fitful fever o'er. 
Here then would I repose, majestic sea ; 
E'en now faint glimpses of eternity 

Come o'er me on thy shore: [given. 

My thoughts from thee to highest themes are 
As thy deep distant blue is lost in Heaven. 

ANNE C. I- BOTTA. 



OUT ON THE SEA. 
Out on the sea are shadows 

From the drifting clouds above, 
That drape th' eternal portals 

Of the realms of peace and love. 

Out on the sea is sunlight 
Where never shadow falls. 

But floods of golden splendor 
From heaven's cerulean halls. 

Out on the sea is beauty 

In hues that ever change, 
In light and shade, in sun and cloud. 

And all things bright and strange. 

Out on the sea is music. 

Where winds and waters meet, — 
The wildest, grandest minstrelsy. 

Vet strangely, sadly sweet. 

Out on the sea is terror. 

When the storm-king rages wild. 
And to the low'ring heavens above 

The giant waves are piled. 



THE LIFE OF THE SEA. 



167 



Out on the sea is mystery, 

A world of fear and dread, — 
With the vast unfathonied depths below, 

And the white bones of the dead. 

Out on the sea are argosies 
With treasures rich and rare, — 

The wealth that nations interchange, — 
Man's choicest works are there. 

Out on the sea are armaments 
Surcharged with death and doom. 

From forth whose yawning mouths of flame 
The murderous cannons boom. 

Out on the sea is majesty 

When the whirlwind rides the wave. 
And the dread abyss of ocean yawns 

As 'twere creation's grave. 

Out on the sea is power, 

The might of heaven's great King, 
Who speaketh in the thunder 

And rides the tempest's wing ! 

M.VRY A. SADLIER 



THE LIFE OF THE SEA. 
These grassy vales are warm and deep. 

Where apple-orchards wave and glow ; 
Upon soft uplands, whitening sheep 

Drift in long wreaths. — Relow, 
Sun-fronting beds of garden thyme, alive 
With the small humming merchants of the hive, 
And cottage homes in every shady nook [brook. 
Where willows dip and kiss the dimples of the 

But all too close against my face 

My thick breath feels these crowding trees ; 
They crush me in their green embrace. — 

I miss the Life of Seas ; 
The wild free life that round the flinty shores 
Of my bleak isles e.xpanded Ocean pours, — 
So free, so far, that, in the lull of even. 
Naught but the rising moon stands on your path 
to heaven. 

I miss the madd'ning Life of Seas, 

When the red. angry sunset dies. 
And to the storm-lash 'd Orcades 

Resound the seaman's cries : 
'Mid thick'ning night and fresh'ning gale, upon 
The stretch'd ear bursts despair's appealing gun, 
O'er the low reef that on the lee-beam raves 
With its down-crashing hills of wild, devouring 



These inland love-bowers sweetly bloom, 

White with the hawthorn's summer snows ; 
Along soft turf a purple gloom 

The elm at sunset throws : 
There the fond lover, listening for the sweet 
Half soundless coming of his maiden's feet. 
Thrills if the linnet's rustling pinions pass, [grass. 
Or some light leaf is blown rippling along the 

But Love his pain as sweetly tells 

Beneath some cavern beetling hoar. 
Where silver sands and rosy shells 

Pave the smooth glistening shore — 
When all the winds are low, and to thy tender 
Accents, the wavelets, stealing in, make slender 
And tinkling cadence, wafting, every one, 
A golden smile to thee from the fast-sinking sun. 

Calm through the heavenly sea on high 

Comes out each white and quiet star — 
So calm up ocean's floating sky 

Come, one by one, afar. 
White quiet sails from the grim icy coasts 
That hear the battles of the whaling hosts, 
Whose homeward crews with feet and flutes in 
tune, [moon. 

And spirits roughly blithe, make music to the 

Or if (like some) thou'st loved in vain. 

Or madly wooed the already won, 
Go when the passion and the pain 

Their havoc have begun. 
And dare the thunder rolling up behind 
The deep, to match that hurricane of mind : 
Or to the sea-winds, raging on thy pale [tale. 
Grief-wasted cheek, pour forth as bitter-keen a 

For in that sleepless, tumbling tide — 
When most thy fever'd spirits reel, 
Sick with desires unsatisfied, 

Dwell life and balm to heal. 
Raise thy free sail, and seek o'er ocean's breast 
— It boots not what— those rose-clouds in the 

west. 
And deem that thus thy spirit freed shall be. 
Ploughing the stars thro' seas of blue Eternity. 

This mainland life I could not live. 

Nor die beneath a rookery's leaves ; 
But I my parting breath would give 

Where chainless Ocean heaves ; 
In some gray turret, where my fading sight 
Could see the lighthouse flame into the night. 
Emblem of guidance and of hope, to save ; 
Type of the Rescuer bright who walked the 
howling wave. 



1 68 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES 



Nor dead, amid the chamers breath, 

Shall rise the tomb with lies befooled. 
But, like the Greek, who faced in death 

The sea in life he ruled. 
High on some peak, wave-^rdcd. will I sleep, 
My dirge sung ever by the choral deep ; 
There, sullen mourner, oft at midnight lone 
Shall thy familiar friend, the thunder, come to 
groan. 

55oft vales and sunny hills, farewell ! 

Long shall the friendship of yon bowers 
Be sweet to me as is the smell 

Of their strange lovely (lowers ; 
And each kind face, like every pleasant star 
Be bright to me, though ever bright afar ; 
True as the sea-bird's wing, f seek my home 
And its glad life, onoe more, by boundless 
Ocean's foam ! | 

UARIHOI-OMEW SIM.MONS. 



BY SEPTEMBER SEAS. 

The wind this morning blows from the sea 
With the sweetness of salt in its breath; 

The balm of its kisses falls on me. 
Lazily swinging the trees beneath. 

Where my hammock dips like boats that ride I 

The white capped billows of yonder tide. 

All week, from the inland fields of flowers, 
Had zephyrs wafted odorous scents 

Of roses Flora within her bowers 

Burned to the summer for frankincense: 

Until 1 dreamt that my dwelling stood 

In groves of spice-trees and sandalwood. 

The green leaves curled on the drooping boughs 
Beneath the warmth of the scented breeze; 

Knec-dccp in cool pools, the drowsy cows 
Resigned themselves imto reveries; 

The chirping voice of the katydid 

Was ail the sound that indolence chid. 

And who could linger and keep from dreams 
When summer whispered her late farewells 

To groves and meads, where the falling streams 
Tinkled like music of silver bells ? 

And the sweet voice of the winds which crooned 

Sang to the soul till its senses swooned. , 



Alas, for songs of the summer days 

Whose sweet enchantment is heard no more ! 
I watch the sea where a misty haze 

Drifts slowly out from the sandy shore, 
.And the shape it takes, I fancy, seems 
The vanishing wraith of summer dreams. 

Over the hills, in a golden dress. 
Autumn is coming adown the path ; 

In new-mown meadows her fixjtsteps press 
Where reapers gather the aftermath ; 

And the trees and vines are all aglow 

With the tints her scarlet banners show. 

A truce to dreaming ; the year wanes fast 
And half its labor is still undone ; 

While folded sails hug the idle mast. 
The port lies off by the setting sun ; 

.And syren songs and restraining hands 

Delay my vessel in pleasure-lands. 

And still the wmd that crosses the sea 
With the sweetness of salt on its lips. 

Flings down its kisses which fall on me 
In this hammock that lazily dips 

Down and across, like the boats to-day 

In the crested billows of yonder bay. 

WILLIAM D. KELLY. 



MY GARDEN BY THE SEA. 

There is a garden by the sea, 

Tranquil as eternity. 

Where oft 1 breathe in happy dreams. 

'Mid bowers so thickly roofed with rose, 

The spirit, lapped in leaves at noon. 

Forgetting earth and all its pain. 

Is lulled asleep by falling rain 

Or liquid lapse of streams ; 

Now where one fronts the sunset glows. 
And one. the rising moon. 

And there's a chamber latticed round 
With foliage, where the shady sound 
Is heard of bubbling, mossy springs. 
In which I rest long summer nights 
Girt by the ambrosial solitude ; 

While the doves nestle in sweet air. 

Flamed by one earnest star, and where 
I wake with stir of golden wings 
That round the open casement brood. 

And waves, and wavering lights. 



THE BED OF OCEAN. 



[69 



Amid its flowers and fadeless trees 
Its spacious, splendoroui silences. 
Its seasonless monotonies 
Of sun and moon and ocean shore, 
And watery woodland's undertone; 
The soul, inspiring mellow breath. 
Secluded past domains of death, 
Thro' Beauty's calm immensities, 
Delighted, silent and alone, 
Would range for evermore. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



THE DREAMER. 

Once more, thou darkly rolling main, 

I bid thy lonely strength adieu ; 
And sorrowing leave thee once again, 

Kamiliar long, yet ever new ! 
And while, thou changeless, boundless sea, 

I quit thy solitary shore, 
I sigh to turn away from thee. 

And think I ne'er may greet thee more. 

Thy many voices which are one. 

The varying garbs that robe thy might, 
Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, 

Thy deeper loveHness by night, 
The shades that flit with every breeze 

Along thy hoar and aged brow, — 
What has the universe like these .' 

Or what so strong, so fair as thou .' 

And when yon radiant friend of earth 

Has bridged the waters with her rays, 
Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, 

That round a seraph's footsteps blaze. 
While lightest clouds at times o'ercast 

The splendor gushing from the spheres, 
Like softening thoughts of sorrow past, 

That fill the eyes of joy with tears, — 

The soul, methinks, in hours like these. 

Might pant to flee its earthly doom. 
And freed from dust to mount the breeze. 

An eagle soaring from the tomb. 
Or mixed in stainless air to roam 

Where'er thy billows know the wind. — 
To make all climes my spirit's home. 

And leave the woes of all behind. 

Or wandering into worlds that beam 
Like lamps of hope to human eyes. 

Wake 'mid delights we now but dream. 
And breathe the rapture of the skies. 



But vain the thought ; my feet are bound 
To this dim planet, — clay to clay, — 

Condemned to tread one thorny round, 
And chained with links that ne'er decay. 

Yet while thy ceaseless current flows. 

Thou mighty mam, and shrinks again, 
Methinks thy rolling floods disclose, 

A refuge safe, at least from men. 
Within thy gently heaving breast. 

That hides no passions dark and wild, 
My weary soul might sink to rest. 

As in its mother's arms a child. 

JOHN STERLING. 



THE BED OF OCEAN. 

Amazing world ! how vain the thoughts of man, 

Thy depths, thy terrors, and thy wealth to scan ! 

Down, down unfathomably deep are laid. 

Where plummet never dropped, where thought 
ne'er strayed, [unknown. 

Earth's vast foundations, — wrecks of worlds 

By central shocks dismembered and o'erthrown. 

What fissures, gulfs, and precipices dread. 

And dismal vales with ivory bones o'erspread ; 

Vast cemet'ries. where Horror holds his court. 

Prowls the fell shark, and monstrous krakens 

sport. 
j What mines of gold and gems of emerald ray, 

What floors of pearl the coral grots inlay ! 

Here, still as death, the oak-ribbed vessel lies, 
] Wedged in the grasping rocks no more to rise ; 

Sent hissing down, as thro' the sulph'rous air 

Rang the mixed shouts of triumph and despair ; 

Now sluggish limpets on the decks repose ; 

Thro' the rent ports the oozy tangle grows. 

And climbs the poop, where Glory's hands un- 
furled 
j The red-cross flag that awed the watery world. 

The victor here and vanquished side by side. 

Sleep ghastly pale, sad wrecks of human pride ; 
I Their nerveless hands yet grasp the fatal steel. 

And yet the warriors' ire they seem to feel. 
! Unhallowed ire ! oh, guilt ! oh, rage unblessed ! 

Here, here. Ambition, come and plume thy crest ! 

Here see thy trophies, relics of the brave, 

Untimely slain, and whelm'd beneath the wave. 

See children, husbands, fathers long deplored, 

Unshrouded, gashed, and mangled by the sword ; 
j Here build the proud memorial of thy fame, 
' And down to hell thy triumphs loud proclaii 



proclaim. 



:70 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



All-righteous Heaven! how long shall murd'rous 

war 
O'er slaughtered hosts impel his ruthless car; i 
And cursed Ambition, drunk with folly, plan 
The guilt, the crimes, and miseries of man ? ' 

WILLIAM H. URLMMOND. 
— From "Tkt GiaHt*s Causeway.'^ 



And spreading wide across the wold 

Wakes into flight some fluttering bird. 

And all the chestnut tops are stirred. 

And all the branches streaked with gold. 

OSCAR WIL 



IMPRESSIONS. 

I. 

The sea is flecked with bars of gray. 
The dull dead wind is nut of tune, 
And like a withered leaf the moon 
1^ blown across the stormy bay. 

Etched clear upon the pallid sand 
The black boat lies : a sailor boy 
Clambers aboard in careless joy 
With laughing face and gleaming hand. 

And overhead the curlews cry, 
Where through the dusky upland grass 
The young brown-throated reapers pass. 
Like silhouettes against the sky. 

II. 

To outer senses there is peace, 
A dreamy peace on either hand. 
Deep silence in the shadowy land. 
Deep silence where the shadows cease. 

Save for a cry that echoes shrill 
From some lone bird disconsolate ; 
A corncrake calling to its mate ; 
The answer from the misty hill. 

And suddenly the moon withdraws 
Her sickle from the lightening skies. 
And to her somber cavern flies. 
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. 

III. 

The sky is laced with fitful red. 
The circling mists and shadows flee, 
The dawn is rising from the sea. 
Like a white lady from her bed. 

And jagged brazen arrows fall 
Athwart the feathers of the night, 
And a long wave of yellow light 
Breaks silently on tower and hall, 



GLENGARIFF. 

: A sun-burst on the bay ! Turn and behold ! 
The restless waves, resplendent in their glory. 
Sweep glittering past yon purpled promontory. 
Bright as Apollo's breast-plate. Bathed in gold. 
Yon bastioned islet gleams. Thin mists are rolled 
Translucent through each glen. A mantle hoary 

I Veils those peaked hills, shapely as e'er in story 
Delphic, or .Alpine, or Vesuvian old, | proud 

Minstrels have sung. From rock and headland 

I The wild-wood spreads its arms around the bay ; 
The manifold mountain comes, now dark, now 

I bright. 

Now seen, now lost, alternate from rich liyht 
To spectral shade ; and each dissolving clou i 
Reveals new mountains while it floats away. 

AUBREY DE VERE. 



STEEDS OF THE OCEAN. 

O'er the wild gannet's bath 
Come the Norse Coursers ! 
O'er the whale's heritance 
Gloriously steering ! 
With beaked heads peering. 
Deep-plunging, high-rearing. 
Tossing their foam abroad. 
Shaking white manes aloft, 
Creamy-necked, pitchy-ribbed 
Steeds of the ocean ! 

O'er the sun's mirror green 
Come the Norse Coursers ! 
Trampling its glassy breadth 
Into bright fragments ! 
Hollow-backed, huge-bosomed. 
Fraught with mailed riders. 
Clanging with hauberks. 
Shield, spear, and battle-a.xe. 
Canvas- winged, cable-reined 
Steeds of the ocean ! 



MORN/.VO ON THE IRISH COAST. 



71 



O'er the wind's ploughing field 
Come the Norse coursers ! 
By a hundred each ridden. 
To the bloody feast bidden, 
They rush in their fierceness 
And ravine all round them ! 
Their shoulders enriching 
With fleecy-light plunder, 
Fire-spreading, foe-spurning 
Steeds of the ocean ! 

GEORGE DARLEY. 
-From '^Elltalslan" 



THE COAST OF CLARE. 

LISCANNOR BAV. 

Two walls of precipices black and steep. 
The storm-lashed ramparts of a naked land. 
Are parted here by leagues of lonely sand 
That make a bay ; and up it ever creep 
Billowy ocean ripples half asleep, 
That cast a belt of foam across the strand, 
Seething and white, and wake in cadence grand 
The everlasting thunder of the deep. 
And there is never silence on that shore ; 
Alike in storm and calm foam-fringes gird 
Its desolation, and the Atlantic's roar 
Makes mighty music. Though the sea be stirred 
By scarce a breath of breeze, yet evermore 
The sands are whitened, and the thunder heard. 

NEAR KILKEE. 

I once did wander on a misty day 

In solitary mood along the verge 

Of those dark cliffs that hear the mournful dirge 

Of billows breaking in Intrinsic Bay ; 

Far, far below rose sheets of blinding spray 

Flung from the waves that ceaselessly submerge 

The fallen fragments of the cliffs, and surge. 

And foam, and boil, and then are sucked away. 

White sea-mists hid the waters waste and wide ; 

The winds were hushed, yet broke eternally 

The melancholy thunder of the sea, 

That voice of solitude : companionless 

I wandered on ; there reigned on every side 

The majesty of utter loneliness. 

LOOPHEAD. 

A sheer surf-beaten island fronts the shore. 
Close to the headland cliffs, whence stormy waves 
Have sent it : there the sea imprisoned raves 
Between dark dungeon walls, and evermore 
Deep in that chasm, with sullen booming roar, 



Conies surging in a rushing, raging tide, [side. 
That pants and boils, and climbs each dripping 
Then sinks as madly as it rose before. 
Beyond, bright crests of ocean waves are tost 
Into the far faint haze that ends the view : 
Northward, the headlands of a rocky coast 
Are white with surf; while southward, broad and 
The Shannon rolls, in tranquil majesty, [blue, 
Into the billows of the boundless sea. 

FROM THE CLIFFS OF BALTARD. 

Across the heaving ocean's billowy flow 
Lie paths of gold that deepen into red : 

' The west is bright : black storm-clouds overhead 

I Give a strange sweetness to the evening glow. 
The swell of the Atlantic breaks below, 
With thunderous resonance : long lines of white 
Tell where the iron coast beats back the might 

I Of stormy seas : dark headlands fringed with 

j snow — 

From blue Loophead to Arran's sunken strand — 

' Deep gloomy precipice-encircled bays, 
Sheer craggy islets, flats of whitened sand, 
Are all scarce dimmed by veils of purpling haze : 
While somewhere in the glory of the west 
Lie the enchanted islands of the blest. 

EDMOND G. A. HOLMES. 



MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST. 

Th' aimin an Dhia ! but there it is. 

The dawn on the hills of Ireland ! 
God's angels lifting the night's black veil 

From the fair, sweet face of my sireland ! 
Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look, 

Like a bride in her rich adornin'. 
And with all the pent up love of my heart, 

1 bid you the top o' the 



This one short hour pays lavishly back 

F"or many a year of mourning ; 
I'd almost venture another flight, 

There's so much joy in returning — 
Watching out for the hallowed shore, 

All other attractions scornin'; 
Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout .' 

I bid you the top o' the mornin'. 

Ho I ho ! upon Cleena's shelving strand. 
The surges are grandly beating. 

And Kerry is pushing her headlands out 
To give us the kindly greeting ; 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



Into the shore the sea-birds fly 
On pinions that know no drooping ; 

And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged, 
A million of waves come trooping. 

Oh, kindly, generous Irish land. 

So leal and fair and loving, 
No wonder the wandering Celt should think 

And dream of you in his roving ! 
The alien home may have gems and gold — 

Shadows may never have gloomed it ; 
Mut the heart will sigh for the absent land. 

Where the love-light first illumed it. 

And doesn't old Cove look charming there, 

Watching the wild waves' motion. 
Leaning her back up against the hills. 

And the tip of her toes on the ocean ? 
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells. 

Ah, maybe their chiming's over. 
For it's many a year since I began 

The life of a Western rover. 



For thirty summers, astore machree. 

Those hills I now feast my eyes on. 
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose. 

Over Memory's dim horizon. 
Even so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed 

In the landscape spread before me ; 
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope 

To see Texas' sky still o'er me. 

Ah ! often upon the Texan plains. 

When the day and the chase were over. 
My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave, 

And around this coast-line hover ; 
.And the prayer would rise, that some future day 

All danger and doublings scornin', 
I'd help to win my native land 

The light of young liberty's mornin'. 



Now fuller and truer the shore-line shows — 

Was ever a scene so splendid } 
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze. — 

Thank God that my exile's ended. 
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again. 

The vale and cot I was born in ! 
< )h, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts, 

1 bid you the top of the mornin'. 



THE BAY OF BISCAY, 1 

Loud roared the dreadful thunder. 

The rain a deluge showers. 
The clouds were rent asunder 

By lightning's vivid powers : 
The night both drear and dark, 
Our poor devoted bark. 
Till next day there she lay 
In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

Now dashed upon the billow, 
Our opening timbers creak ; 

Each fears a watery pillow. 
None stops the dreadful leak ; 

To cimg to slippery shrouds. 

Each breathless seaman crowds. 

As she lay till next day 

In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 

At length the wished for morrow 
Broke through the hazy sky ; 

Absorbetl in silent sorrow, 
Each heaved a bitter sigh ; 

The dismal wreck to view 

Struck horror to the crew 

As we lay on that day 

In the Bay of Biscay, O! 

Her yielding timbers sever. 

Her pitchy seams are rent. 
When heaven, all bounteous ever, 

Its boundless mercy sent ; 
A sail in sight appears. 
We hail her with three chfeers : 
Now we .sail with the gale 

From the Bay of Biscay. O ! 

ANDREW CHERRY. 



THE WEDDING-A DUET. 

Oh I never such a sight : 
As pale and breathless she lies hushing 
The throbbing her young bosom fills, 
.\nd puts her silver fingers forth, 
.\nd through the parted bushes peers 
So anxiously, and sweet and long. 
A wondering at his lonesome stay. 
Whom she, light-footed from the West, 
All through the endless night and wood. 
Hath sought, led on by the CIreat Spirit, 
She, the soft-voiced, lovely Jimiata : 

There in the morning light. 



LAMENT OF THE RIVEIx 



11 



Oil ! never such a sight : 
As flushed and frowning, he came rushing 
Adown between the mist-crowned hills, 
Down from his wigwam in the North, 
Quitting the skies whose watchful tears 
Had shaped him stout of limb, and strong 
Of arm to push his manly way- 
Through stubborn ridge from base to crest. 
To where he surely wist he should 
Meet her, led on by the Great Spirit, 
He, the young and lordly Susquehanna, 

There in the morning light. 

Oh ! never such a sight : 
He sweeping round the valley's bend 
While she, on maiden tip-toe rising. 
Feasts loving glances on the friend 
She has so lonesome been abiding ; 
He, helpless, seeks the fatal shore. 
Charm-blinded by her eyes, dark-flashing 
Witliin the portals of the door 
Through which her slender form is passing : 
He opens wide his giant arms. 
The young and lordly Susquehanna ; 
She nestles there her virgin charms. 
The soft-voiced, lovely Juniata ; 

There in the bright sunlight. 

Oh ! never such a sight : 
Down in the green-cloak-white-lined bay, 
Y^QW snug together they are lying. 
When night shuts up the gates of day. 
And bids the plover stop his piping ; 
All still but assonance of wind 
Humming its ever-changing whimpers 
To consonance of waves, that find 
Shorj-rest in unisonic whispers ; 
How lightly sleeps, that wedding-eve. 
The young, true-hearted Susquehanna ; 
And by his side, no more to leave. 
The sweet-breathed, lovely Juniata : 

There in the dim twilight. 

JOHX PATRICK BROWN. 



" The imaged sun floats proudly on our breast 
Ever beside each wanderer, tho' there be 
Many to tread our path of turf and flowers : 
A thousand sparkling orbs for one imprest 
On us— for ours is the bright mimicry 
Of Nature, changing with the changeful hours. 

" And thus we have a world, a lovely world, 
! A softened picture of the upper sphere 
I Sunk in our crystal depths and glassy caves ; 

And every cloud beneath the heavens unfurled, 
I And every shadowy tint they wear, sleeps here. 

Here in the voiceless Kingdom of the waves. 

" On to the ocean ! ever, ever on ! 
Our banded waters, hurrying to the deep, 
I Lift to the winds a song of wilder strife ; 
And white plumes glittering in to-morrow's sun 
Shall crest our waves when starting out of sleep 
For the glad tumult of their ocean life. 

^ " On to the Ocean ! through the midnight chill. 
Beneath the glowing stars, by woodlands dim, 
A silvery wreath of beauty shall we twine. 
Thus may our course — ceaseless, unwearied still^ 
Pure — blessing as it flows — aye shadow Him 
Our courses who unlocked with hand divine I " 



SONG OF THE STREAMS. 

" The dirge of Nature is her streams ! Their song 
Speaks a soft music to man's grief, and those 
Most love them who have loved all else in vain ; 
We charmed that lone one as he passed along 
From the dark thraldom of his dream of woes, — 
His sadness died before our sadder strain. 



WILLIAM ARCHER BUTLER. 



-From "Evensong of i 



LAMENT OF THE RIVER. 

Mourns the river : I came down from the moun- 
Jubilant with pride and glee, [tain 

Leaping thro' the winds, and shouting 
That I had an errand to the sea ! 

The rocks stood against me, and we wrestled. 
But I leaped from the holding of their hands. 

Leaped from the holding, and went slipping 
And sliding into lower lands. 

I carolled as I went, and the woodlands 

Smiled as my song murmured by, 
And the birds on the wing heard me singing. 

And dropped me a blessing from the sky. 

The flowers on the bank heard me singing, 
And the buds that had been red and sweet 

Grew redder and sweeter as they listened. 
And their golden hearts began to beat. 



174 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



The cities through their din heard me passing, 
They came out and crowned me with their 
towers; 
' The trees hung their garlands up above me, 
And coaxed me to rest among their bowers. 

But 1 laughed as I left them in the sunshine : 
There was never aught of rest for me 

Till I mingled my waters with the ocean, 
Till I sang in the chorus of the sea. 

Ah me ! for my pride upon the mountain, 
Ah me ! for my beauty in the plains. 

Where my crest floated glorious in the sunshine. 
And the clouds showered strengtli into my 
veins. 

Alas ! for the blushing little blossoms. 

And the grasses with their long golden drifts. 
For the shadows of the forest in the noontide. 

And the full-handed cities with their gifts. 

I have mingled my waters with the ocean, 
I have sung in the chorus of the sea, 

And my soul from the tumult of the billows 
Will nevermore be jubilant and free. 

I sing, but the echo of my mourning 
Returns to me shrieking back again. 

One wild weak note amongst the myriads [main. 
That are sobbing 'neath the thunders of the 

Oh. well for the dewdrop on the gowan. 
Oh, well for the pool upon the height. 

Where the kids gather thirsty in the noontide. 
And stars watch thro' all the summer night. 

There is no home-returning for the waters 
To the mountain, whence they came glad and 

There is no happy ditty for the singer [free; 
That has sung in the chorus of the sea. 

ROSA MULHOLLAND. 



I By winding paths and mossy lanes, 

I All brightly fringed with flower and berry, 

] We pass, nor pause to note the strains 

\ Of woodland warblers blithe and merry, 

, Our thoughts are bent on " cast " and " play," 

We hardly heed the splendors o'er us. 
But haste with quickening steps away 

To reach the glorious sport before us. 

With lisping, low-voiced monotone 

The brook flows by in curves and sallies. 
And bears its rippling music down 

To daisied slopes and verdant valleys ; 
, Through serried pines the sunlight falls 

Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted. 
And near, the cleft and towering walls 

Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. 

Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove 

Where balsam boughs are gently swaying, 
j And round a silvery beech abo'-e 

Two heedless squirrels are briskly playing : 
But now to work with rod and line. 

And dainty flies on trusted leader ; 
We'll take the first auspicious sign. 

And cast below yon slanting cedar. 

A gleam, a splash ! By George, he's fast ! 

A lusty fellow, and how he rushes. 
Now here, now there, now swiftly past 

.•\ bend of fern and alder-bushes ! 
The whistling line spins merrily out ; 

He leaps, and flings a sparkling torrent 
Of crystals round, then wheels about 

And heads straight up the foamy 



TROUT-FISHING. 

Across the fields and through the dew 

Still sparkling on the blossomed clover 
We lightly trudge, with all the blue 

Broad arch of morning beaming over ; 
The woods before are dark and cool. 

With here and there a golden glimmer 
And over many a wayside pool, 

A gleam, a flasli, a shade, a shimmer. 



Behind a boulder now he darts, 
I And now across to deep recesses 
Beneath a brambly bank, then starts 

For sheltering beds of tangled cresses ; 
1 But vain, all vain !— subdued at last, 
I He yields, and faintly gasps and flotmders ; 
I 'Tis o'er, — your sportive hour is p;ist, 
O royal prince of plump two-pounders ! 



Again with feathery touch the flies 

Dance lightly over pool and shallow. 
And, darting tlirough reflected skies. 

The wary trout retreat or follow ; 
.\ " coachman " now their fancy takes. 

Or now a " miller " or now a "had; I 
.\nd many a plunging beauty breaks. 

To tr^• our skill and test our tackle. 



THE LI F FEY. 



175 



Still higher, higher mounts the sun. 

The morn hastes on and noon is nearing ; 
Now varying sounds come borne upon 

The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing : 
The far cock-crow, the jangling bell 

That tells where browsing herds are straying ; 
The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell, 

The woodman's call, the hound's deep baying. 

Still down the grassy marge we go, 

Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning, 
Now catching from a glade below 

A drowsy mill's perpetual droning; 
Still on :— the miller's brown-faced boy 

Stands knee-deep in the shining water, 
And near, with startled glance and coy. 

The miller's comely dark-eyed daughter. 

So through the long, bright, balmy day 

In shade and sun alternate ranging, 
■We speed the hastening hours away. 

Where scene and sound are ever changing. 
Till all the hills are dashed with gold 

That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent. 
And twilight falls on field and wold. 

Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent. 
Soft, soothing calm of summer woods. 

Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers. 
Of fragrant, flowery solitudes. 

Where peace with folded pinions slumbers. 
Full oft to thee doth fancy take 

Her airy flight from burdened highways, 
To roam again by brook or lake. 

Or dream in leafy paths and byways. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



THE LIFFEY. 



Delicious Liffey ! from the bosoming hills [pure, 
What man who sees tliee issuing strong and 

But with some wistful, fresh emotion fills. 
Akin to Nature's own sweet temperature. 

And, haply, thinks : — on this green bank 'twere 
sweet 

To make one's mansion sometime of the year ; 
For health and pleasure on these uplands meet. 

And all the isle's amenities are here. 

Hither the merry music of the chase 
Floats up the festive borders of Kildare ; 

And slim-bright steeds extending in the race 
Are yonder seen, and camping legions there. 



These coverts hold the wary-gallant fo.x ; 

There the parked stag waits his enlarging day . 
And there, triumphant o'er opposing rocks. 

The shooting salmon quivers thro' thy spray. 

The heath, the fern, the honey-fragrant furze 
Carpet thy cradling steeps ; thy middle flow- 
Laves lawn and oak-wood : o'er thy downward 
course 
Laburnums nod and terraced roses blow. 

To ride the race, to hunt, to fowl, to fish. [do. 
To do and dare vi'hate'er brave youth would 

A fair fine country as the heart could wish. 
And fair the brown-clear river running through. 

Such seemest thou to Dublin's youth to-day, 
Oh clear-dark Liffey, mid the pleasant land ; 

With life's delights abounding, brave and gay. 
The song, the dance, the softly yielded hand, 

The exulting leap, the backward flying fence. 
The whirling reel, the steady-leveled gun ; — 

With all attractions for the youthful sense. 
All charms to please the manly mind, but one. 

For thou, for them, alas ! nor History hast, 
Nor even Tradition ; and the Man aspires 

To link his present with his Country's past. 
And live anew in knowledge of his sires ; 

No rootless colonist of alien earth. 

Proud but of patient lungs and pliant limb, 

A stranger in the land that gave him birth, 
The land a stranger to itself and him. 

Yet. though in History's page thou may'st not 
High places set apart for deeds sublime [claim 

That hinge the turnings of the gates of Fame 
And give to view the avenues of Time ; 

Not all unglorious in the olden day 

Art thou, Moy-Liffey ; and the loving mind 

Might round thy borders many a gracious lay 
And many a tale not unheroic find. 

Sir Almeric's deeds might fire a youthful heart 
To brave contention 'mid illustrious peers ; 

Tears into eyes as beautiful might start 
At tender record of Isolda's tears ; 

Virtue itself uplift a loftier head, [stancy, 

Linked through the years with Ormond's con- 

And airs from Runnymede around us spread, — 
Yea, all the fragrance of the Charter Tree 



1 70 



POEAfS OF yA TURE AND PLACES. 



Wafted down time, refresh the conscious soul Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest 
With Freedom's balms, when, firm in patient In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I lo. 

Uublin's I)e Londres. to Pandolfo's scroll [zeal, j best. 

Alone of all refused to set his seal ; Where the storms which we feel in this cold wur 

should ceiise. 



Or when her other Henry's happier eyes 
Up-glancing from his field of victory wor 

Beheld, one moment, 'neath adoring skies. 
The lifted isle lie nearer to the sun.— 



And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled 
peace. 



THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 



For others, these. I. from the twilight waste 

Where pale Tradition sits by Memory's grave. 
Gather this wreath, and ere the nightfall haste | Adieu to Ballyshaiinon ! where I was bred ar 

! born : 

I Go where 1 may, I 11 think of you. as sure a 
I night and morn ; 

At summer eve by stream and dimpling pool, 1 The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every 



To fling niy votive garland on thy wave. 
Wave, waft it softly ; and when lovers stray 



Gather thy murmurs into voice, and say. 
Witli liquid utterance, passionate and full. 



Scorn not, sweet maiden, scorn not, vigorous 
youth. 



is known. 
And not a face in all the place but partly sciii: 

my own. 
There's not a house or window, there's not a fiei 

or hill, 



The lay, though breathing of an Irish home. J^"'. east or west, in foreign lands. I'll recollc 



That tells of woman-love and warrior-ruth 
And old e.xpectancy of Christ to come. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
—Front *'Af^sgvtfra.** 



them still; 
I leave my warm heart with you, though my ba' : 

I'm forced to turn — 
' So adieu to Ballyshannon and the windlnif bank- 
of Erne ! 



No more on pleasant evenings we'll sauntc 

down the Mall, 
Where the trout is rising to the fly, the salmoi. 
j to the fall ; 

reet j xhe boat comes straining on her net. and heavii 
she creeps. 

meet. Cast off. cast off !— she feels the oars, and to Ik-: 

Oh. the last rays of feeling and life must depart berth she sweeps ; 

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my Xow stem and stern keep hauling, and gathering 
heart. up the clue. 

Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 

There is not in the wide world a valley so 1 

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters 



Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the 

scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill. 
Oh, no— it was something more exquisite still. 



Then they may sit, and have their joke, and se: 

their pipes to burn — 
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks 

of Erne ! 



Twas that friends, the beloved of 



of the waterfall, the mirror of the 



Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment 1 When all the green-hilled harbor is full from 



side to side- 



And who felt how the best charms of nature From Portnasun to Bulliebawns. and round tin 
improve j Abbey Bay, 

When we see them reflected from looks that we | From the little rocky island to Coolnargit sand- 
love, hills gray ; 



THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE. 



^11 



While far upon tlie southern Hne, to guard it like And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the 



a wall. 



heath and fern,- 



The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze \ For I must say adieu-adieu to the winding banks 

calmly over all, 
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag 

at her stern ; — l 

Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of | 

Erne ! 



Farewell to you, Kildony lads, and them that 
pull an oar, 

A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to 
Mullaghmore ; 

From Killybegs to Carrigan, with its ocean- 
mountain steep. 

Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the 
deep ; 

From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by 
Tullen strand. 



of Erne ! 

The thrush will call through Camlm groves the 

livelong summer day ; 
The water run by mossy cliffy and bank with 

wild-flowers gay ; 
The girls will bring their work and sing beneath 

a twisted thorn. 
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among 

the growing corn ; 
Along the river-side they go, where I have often 

been,^^ 
Oh, never shall I see again the days that I have 

seen. ^ 
A thousand chances are to one I never may re- 
turn, — 



Level and long, and white with waves, where Adieu to Ballyshannon. and the winding banks 



gull and curlew stand ; 
Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers 

you discern : — 
Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks 

of Erne ! 



of Erne ! 



Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbors 

meet. 
And the fiddle says to boys and girls " get up 
j and shake your feet," 

Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! a:id your sum- To "shanachus " and wise old talk of Erin's days 



mer crowds that run 



gone by- 



From inland homes, to see with joy th' Atlantic i Who trenched the rath on such a hill, and whe 



setting sun ! 
To breathe the buoyant salted 
among the waves ; 



the bones may lie, 
md sport I Of saint, or king, or warrior-chiefs ; with tales of 
fairy power. 



To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the i Add tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the 



gloomy 



twilight hour. 



To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the I The mournful song of exile is now for me to 



crabs, the fish ; 

Young men and maids to meet and smile, and 
form a tender wish ; 

The sick and old in search of health, for all 
things have their turn — 

And I must quit my native shore, and the wind- 
ing banks of Erne ! 

Farewell to every white cascade from the Har- 
bor to Belleek, 

And every pool where fins may rest, and 1x7- 
shaded creek ; 

The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and 
holly grow ; 

The one split yew-tree gazing on the curbing 
flood below ; 

The Lough that winds through islands under 
Turavi' mountain green : 

The Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with 
tranquil bays between ; 



learn — 
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding 
banks of Erne ! 

Now measure from the Commons down to each 

end of the Purt, 
From the Red Barn to the Abbey, I wish no one 

any hurt ; 
Search through the streets, and down the Mall 

and out to Portnasun, 
If any foes of mine be there, I pardon every 

one ; 
I hope that man and woman kind will do the 

same by me. 
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the 

sea. 
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often 

fondly turn. 
To think of Ballyshannon and the winding banks 

of Erne ! 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



If ever I'm a moneyed man. I mean, please God. And thee. Tetunny, blandly calm, within whose 
to cast i solemn shade 

My golden anchor in the place where youthful The mingled dust of sire and son in peaceful 
years were passed ; rest Is laid ; 

Though heads that now are black and brown Corlea's green vale. Cliff's sutely halls, Laput.. 
must meanwhile gather gray, emerald grove. 

New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones Fair Camlin woods, and Kathleen's Fall, In; 
drop away — \ famed in lays of love ; 

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world To Ballyshannon's shingly strand, and bri;^ 

beside; Bundoran Bay- 
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through To each and every dear old spot doth memory- 
lands and waters wide. fondly stray ! 

And ii the Lord allows me. 1 surely will return Much changed. 1 fear, is all the scene, yet 



To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding 
banks of Erne. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



MEMORIES OF THE ERNE. j 

The summer days are darker now. the wintry 

days more drear. 
And leaf and flower in glen and bower more 

sober seem, and sere. 
Than when, in boyhood's sunny days, which 

knew no hour of shade. 
Along thy banks, O stately Erne, with idle steps 

I strayed ! 
'Twas five and twenty years ago, and long years 

they have been. 
Yet freshly still before me spreads the fair. 

familiar scene — 
The blooming slopes, the billowy fields, the 

winding paths and ways. 
The woodlands near, the hills afar, all veiled in 

mystic haze. 
And. gliding grandly to the sea. with many a 

Hash and gleam. 
And many a curve by swelling shores, the dear 

old storied stream. 
That flows and frets o'er ford and fall, to meet 

the waves below. 
And murmurs still the song it s.ing a thousand 

years ago ! 

To thee, Belleek, where anglers came from all 
the country round. 

And simple lives of lowly toil by simple joys 
were crowned ; 

And thee, Rose-isle, whose ivy-crested crumb- 
ling tower hath stood 

Through centuries a warder gray above the foamy 
flood ; 



grandly thou dost flow, 
O stately stream, as erst thou didst a thousand 
years ago ! 

A mother, parted from her child, whose absen 
spans the years. 

Sees not. when gazing fond and far. with vision 
dimmed by tears. 

A stalwart form, with bearded face and vigor- 
ous, manly ways. 

But still beholds the darling boy she clasped in 
happy days ; 

The boy may be to manhood grown, and all his 
ways be strange. 

But to the mother's wistful eye Time's hand hath 
wrought no change : 

And thus doth faithful memory still preser\-e the 
favorite scene. 

And picture o'er each cherished charm, though 
long years intervene ; 

Mayhap the scene is sadly changed, and many a 
charm decayed. 

But o'er the lamp that memory holds no dark- 
ening hand is l.iid. 

New footsteps press thy banks, O Erne, but still 
thy waters flow 

With rhythmic murmur as they did a thousand 
years ago ! 

Since last, like soothing strains at eve, their rip- 
pling cadence fell 

On ears not then attuned to notes of prouder, 
loftier swell, 

I've stood where Hudson's mighty tide sweeps 
downward to the sea. 

And gazed on Mississippi's grand expanse of 
majesty ; 

Potomac's war-scarred shores I've seen, by sum- 
mer bloom made fair. 

And climbed the hills which sentinel the lordly 
Delaware ; 



LOUGH BRAY. 



By many a sylvan stream I've strayed, and many 

a mossy shore. 
Where varying splendors glorified the emerald 

landscape o'er ; 
To each and all, in north and south, and east, 

and bounteous west, 
I freely grant a generous meed, and hold their 

charms confessed ; 
But still to thee my heart returns, and all its 

currents flow. 
Dear Erne, still murmuring as thou didst a 

thousand years ago. 

Alas! that from the peaceful vale where calm 

contentment smiled, 
And simple pleasures, sweetly pure, the passing 

hours beguiled — 
Alas ! that thence thy children's steps in youth 

or age should turn. 
No more to press thy blooming banks and flowery 

paths, O Erne ! 
But chance and fate hath thus decreed, and were 

I now to stand 
Upon thy shore, this face might be a strange one 

in the land ! 
The kindly friends, the comrades dear, whom 

last I saw through tears. 
Are changed, I ween, as mucli as I, by five and 

twenty years ! 
And some in calm Tetunny sleep, and some 

have strayed afar. 
To dree or die 'neath tropic sun or glittering 

northern star. 
But thou, bright Erne, thy course doth run, to 

meet the waves below, 
And chanteth still the song they heard a thou- 
sand years ago. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



THE INNY'S SIDE. 

Green grows the turf by Inny's side. 
And white the daisies spring. 

When April cometh forth a bride 
To hear the brown thrush sing. 

And peeps my bonny gem of blue. 
Sweet, pure, forget-me-not. 

The sheltering rushes slyly through ; 
And by that favored spot 



The proud swan sails with open wing, 

The water lilies wait 
Till summer's sun to them shall bring 

The white robes of their state. 

On Inny's banks, by Inny's stream. 

In Ballymulvey's grove, 
I dreamt my earliest, tenderest dream 

Of never-ending love. 

Vain mortals that we dreamers are — 

All things must end below. 
And after April cometh June, 

And after June tide, snow. 

And so, grown old, I ponder on, 
Those day.s by Inny's stream. 

And find the hopes I built upon 
Were but a sweet, brief dream I 

A dream.' Well, be it ever so — 

Such visions pleasures bring; 
Too soon comes winter with his snow ; 

Let young hearts dream in spring. 

WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 



LOUGH BRAY. 



A little, lonely moorland lake. 

Its waters brown and cool and deep — 

The cliffs, the hills behind it make 
A picture for my heart to keep. 

For rock and heather, wave and strand. 
Wore tints 1 never saw them wear ; 

The June sunshine was o'er the land- 
Before, 'twas never half so fair ! 

The amber ripples sang all day. 

And singing spilled their crowns of white 
Upon the beach, in thin pale spray 

That streaked the sober sand with light. 

The amber ripples sang their song. 
When suddenly from far o'erhead 

A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng 
Of lovely things about us spread. 

Some flowers were there, so near the brink 
Their shadows in the wave were thrown: 

While mosses, green and gray and pink. 

Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone. 



t8o 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



\nd, over all, the summer sky 
Shut out the town we left behind ; 

'Twas joy to stand in silence by. 
One bright chain linking mind to mind. 

Oh, little lonely mountain spot ! 

Your place within my heart will be 
Apart from all life's busy lot 

A true, sweet, solemn memory. 

ROSE KAVANAGH. 



SWEET AVONDU. 

On Cicada's hills the moon is bright. 
Dark Avondu still rolls in light : 
All changeless is that mountain's head. 
That river still seeks ocean's bed ; 
The calm blue waters of Loch Lene 
Still kiss their own sweet isles of green ; 
But Where's the heart as firm and true 
As hill, or lake, or Avondu } 

It may not be : the firmest heart 
From all it loves must often part ; 
I A look, a word will quench the flame, 
I That time or fate could never tame ; 
I And these are feelings proud and high 
That through all changes cannot die. 
That strive with love, and conquer too — 
I knew them all by Avondu. 

Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks 
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ; 
Farewell, ye mists that love to ride 
On Cahir-bearna's stormy side 
Farewell, November's moaning breeze. 
Wild minstrel of the dying trees ; 
Clara, a fon>l farewell to you ! 
We meet no more by Avondu. 

No more ; but thou, O glorious hill. 
Lift to the moon thy forehead still ! 
Flow on. flow on. thou dark, swift river 
Upon thy free, wild course forever; 
Exult, young hearts, in lifetime's spring. 
And taste the joys pure love can bring ; 
But, wanderer, go I they're not for you — 
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu ! 

To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail 
That bears me far from Innisfail ; 
But, lady, when some happier youth 
Shall see thy worth and know thy truth, 



Some lover of thy native land 
Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand, 
O, think of him who loved thee too. 
And loved in vain by Avondu ! 

JAMES J. CALLANAN. 



DOWN BY THE DODDER. 

Nature I love in all her moods. 

But I more oft have sought her 
' Where on the silence of green woods 

Breaks in the rush of water. 
The noise of streamlets' ceaseless flow 

Has soothed my spirit ever, — 
Blank seems fair nature's fairest show 

Without some gleaming river. 

I Had I to own a grand estate 

(The notion makes me shiver) 

For these three things I'd stipulate 
, A lake, a hill, a river. 

Your dull, flat, woody parks may be 
I Baronialler and broader ; 

A glen for me 'twi.xt hills and sea, 
I With a live stream like Dodder. 

Too long have I thy neighbor been. 

Dear stream, without exploring 
Thy course amid the meadows green. 

Thy purling and thy roaring ; 
For thou, too, placid stream, hast roared. 

While in wild wintry weather 
Thou hast thy mountain torrent poured 

Between the crags and heather. 

Thy mountain cradle's far away. 

Thy race is run ; and mine is 
Nearer perhaps — ah ! who can say 

How near? — unto xfi/inis. 
And so from life's loud dusty road, 

A somewhat jaded plodder, 
I steal to this serene abode. 

And thee, suburban Dodder. 

I lean me on this orchard wall 

And sniff the pears and cherries — 
Each shrub and tree, both great and small. 
Stoops 'neath its load of berries. 
' That redbreast thieving yonder, see ! 

Poor innocent marauder, 
I The seventh commandment binds not thee 
I A-robbin' near the Doddc. 



LIMERICK TOWN. 



And now our seaward ramble meets 

A rustic, quaint and still town, 
Which you must spell with double / — 

God bless it, dear old Milltown ! 
Yet here, even here, one likes to dine : 

Rich scenery's poor fodder 
For poet going up the Rhine, 

Or going down the Dodder. 

My song must cease, but thine goes on; 

Thy musical, meek murmur 
Broke nature's silence ages gone — 

Thy voice has but grown firmer. 
In shade and shine, grave, gay, sing on, 

And scoop thy channel broader ; 
From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn. 

Flow on, sing on, O Dodder ! 

Flow on ! Poor Moore once warbled here 

" Flow on, thou shining river !" 
Thy race is run, the sea is near, 

My muse grows sad — forgive her. 
And as we've strewn upon thy banks. 

Our very softest sawder. 
Flash back thy sunniest smile in thanks 

Upon thy Laureate, Dodder! 

I leave thee. Shall it be for aye, 

A river's long forever ? 
" I will return," we often say. 

And yet return, ah ! never. 
Well, on life's road, through dust or flowers, 

A not less useful plodder 
I'll be, please God, for these calm hours 

Spent on the banks of Dodder. 

M.^TTHEW RU.SSELL. 



LIMERICK TOWN. 

Here I've got you. Philip Desmond, standing in 

the market-place, 
'Mid the farmers and the corn-sacks, and the hay 

in either space. 
Near the fruit-stalls, and the woman knitting 

socks and selling lace. 



There is High street, up the hill-side 

shops on either side. 
Queer, old-fashioned, dusky High street— here 

so narrow, there so wide. 
Whips and harness, saddles, signboard; 

out in quiet pride. 



twenty 



Up and down the noisy highway, how the mar- 
ket people go ! 

Country girls in Turkey kerchiefs— poppies mov- 
ing to and fro— 

Frieze-clad fathers, great in buttons, brass and 
watch-seals, all a-show. 

.Merry- merry are their voices, Philip Desmond, 
unto me, 

Dear the mellow Munster accent, with its inter- 
mittent glee ; 

Dear the blue cloaks and the gray coats, things 
I long have longed to see. 

E'en the curses, adjurations, in my senses sound 

like rhyme. 
And the great rough-throated laughter of that 

peasant, in his prime. 
Winking from the grass-bound cart-shaft, brings 

me back the other time. 

Not a soul, observe you, knows me, not a friend 

a hand will yield. 
Would they know, if to the land-marks all around 

them I appealed .' 
Know me! If I died this minute — dig for me 

the Potter's field ! 



Bricks wa.x gray, and memories grayer, and our 
faces somehow pass 

Like reflections from the surface of a sudden- 
darkened glass. 

Live you do, but as a unit of the undistinguished 
mass. 

"Pshaw! you're prosy." Am I prosy? Mark 

you then this sunward flight : 
" I have seen this street and roof-tops ambered 

in the morning's light. 
Golden in the deep of noonday, crimson on the 

marge of night. 

" Continents of gorgeous cloud-land, argosies of 
blue and flame. 

With the sea-wind's even pressure o'er this roar- 
ing fabourg came." 

This is fine supernal nonsense. Look, it puts 
my cheek to shame. 

Come, I want a storm of gossip, pleasant jests 

and ancient chat ; 
At that dusky doorway yonder my grandfather 

smoked and sat. 
Tendrils of the wind-blown clover sticking in his 

broad-leafed hat. 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



There he sat and read the paper. Fancy I recall 

him now ! 
All the shadow of the house-front slanting up 

from knee to brow ; 
Critic he of far convulsions, keen-eyed judge of 

sheep and cow. 

Now he lives in God's good judgment. Simon, 

much he thought of me. 
Laughing gravely at my questions, as I sat upon 

his knee- 
As I trifled with his watch-seal, red carbuncle 

fair to see. 

Ancient house that held my father, all are gone 

beyond recall. 
There's where Uncle Michael painted flower-pots 

on the parlor wall, 
There's where Nannie, best of she-goats, munched 

her hay and had her stall. 

Many a night from race and market down this 
street six brothers strode. 

Finer, blither, truer fellows never barred a coun- 
try road. 

Shouting, wheeling, fighting, scorning watch- 
man's law and borough code. 

Hither, with my hand in her hand, came my 

mother many a day, 
She, the old man's pet and darling, at his side 

or far away. 
And her chair was near the window, half in 

square and half in bay. 

Oh, my mother, my pure-hearted, dear to me 
as child and wife, 

Ever earnest, ever toilsome in this quick unrest- 
ing strife, 

Ever working out the mission of a silent, noble 
life. 

Do I love you ? Can you ask me } Do I love you, 

mother mine ? 
Love you ! Yes, while God exists and while His 

sun and moon shall shine, 
1 was yours. O, sweet, bright darling, in the 

Heavens I shall be thine; 

If 1 write this rhyming gossip, all about the 

ancient street, 
Tis because the very footpaths were made 

blessed by your feet ; 
Dear, pale mother ! writing of you, how my 

heart and pulses beat ! 



Beat and beat with warm convulsions, and \v.\ 

eyes are thick with tears, 
And your low song by my cradle sounds again j 

within mine ears : 
Here's the highway which you trod once, 1 thrii r 

filled with childish fears. 

Rolled the wagons, swore the carters outside in 

the crowded street. 
Horses reared, and cattle stumbled, dogs barkfl 

hfgh from loads of wheat. 
But inside the room was pleasant, and the 

with thyme was sweet. 

Others now are in their places, honest folk who 

know us not, I 

Do I chafe at the transition ? Philip, 'tis the com- I 
mon lot ; 

Do your duty, live your lifetime, say your pra\ 
ers, and be forgot. 

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELI. 



ON THE RAMPART: LIMERICK. 

Cheerily rings the boatman's song 

Across the dark-brown water ; 
His mast is slant, his sail is strong. 
His hold is red with slaughter — 
With beeves that cropped the field of Glynn, 

And sheep that pricked their meadows. 
Until the sunset-cry trooped in 
The cattle from the shadows. 
He holds the foam-washed tiller loose. 

And hums a country ditty ; 
For under clouds of gold turned puce, 
Gleam harbor, mole, and city. 

O town of manhood ! maidenhood ! 

By thee the Shannon flashes — 
There Freedom's seed was sown in blood. 
To blossom into ashes. 

St. Mary's, in the evening air. 

Springs up austere and olden ; 
Two sides its steeple gray and bare. 

Two sides with sunset golden. 
The bells roll out, the bells roll back. 

For lusty knaves are ringing ; 
Deep in the chancel, red and black. 

The white-robed boys are singing. 



THE HUDSON. 



The sexton loiters by the gate 

With eyes more blue than hissop, 
A black-green skull-cap on his pate 
And all his mouth a-gossip. 
This is the town beside the flood — 
The walls the Shannon washes — 
Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, 
To blossom into ashes. 

How thick with life the Irish town ! 

Dear gay and battered portress. 
That laid all save her honor down, 
To save the fire-ringed fortress. 
Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag 

That symbolized the people — 
A riddled rag, a bloody rag. 

Plucked from St. Mary's steeple. 
Thick are the walls the women lined 

With courage worthy Roman, 
When, armed with hate sublime, if blind. 
They scourged the headlong foemaii. 
This is the town beside the flood. 

That round its ramparts flashes. 
Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood, 
To blossom into ashes. 

This part is mine : to live divorced 

Where foul November gathers, 
With other sons of thine dispersed. 

Brave city of my fathers— 
To gaze on rivers not mine own. 
And nurse a wasting longing. 
Where Babylon, with trumpets blown, 

South, North, East, West, comes thronging— 
To hear distinctly, if afar. 

The voices of thy people — 
To hear through crepitating jar 
The sweet bells of thy steeple — 

To love the town, the hill, the wood. 

The Shannon's stormful flashes, 
Where Freedom's seed was sown in blood. 
To blossom into ashes. 

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNKLL. 



From rocks embattled, that, abrupt and tall. 
Heave their bulk skyward like a castle-wall, 
And hem thee in, until the rapids hoarse 
Split the huge marble with an earthquake's force, 
To where thy waves are sweet with summer 

scents. 
Flung from the highland's softer lineaments — 
Each lovelier change thy broadening billows take, 
Now sweeping on, now like some mighty lake. 
Stretching away where evening-tinted isles 
Woo thee to linger mid their rosy smiles — 
The lonely cove, the village-humming hill, 
The green dell lending thee its fairy rill — 
All, all are old familiar scenes to one 
Who tracks thee but by fancy's aid alone. 



Yet well his boyhood's earnest hours adored 
The haunted headlands, since he first explored 
With Weld the vast and shadowy recesses 
Of their grand woods and verdant wildernesses ; 
Since first he opened the enchanted books 
Whose words are silver, liquid as the brooks. 
Of that loved wanderer who told the west 
Van Winkle's wondrous tale, and filled each breast 
By turns with awe, delight, or blithe emotion, 
Painting the life thy forest-shadows knew. 
What time the settlers, crowding o'er the ocean. 
Spread their white sails along thy waters blue. 

Theirs were the hearts true liberty bestows, 
The valor that adventure lights in men ; 
And in their children still the metal glows, 
As well can witness each resounding glen 
Of the fair scene, whose mellow colors shine 
Beneath the splendor of yon evening orb. 
That sinks serene as Washington'.s decline. 
Whose memory here should meaner thoughts 



THE HUDSON. 



Sound to the sun thy solemn joy forever ! 
Roll forth the enormous gladness of thy waves. 
Mid boundless bloom, thou bright majestic river. 
Worthy the giant land thy current laves ! 
Each bend of beauty, from the stooping cliff. 
Whose shade is dotted by the fisher's skiff,— 



Here rose the ramparts, never reared na vam 
When justice smites in two the oppressor's chain ; 
Here, year on year, thro' yonder heaven of blue. 
The bomb's hot wrath its rending volleys threw 
Against those towers, which, scorning all attack. 
Still rolled the assailants' shattered battle back ; 
Till, as they fled in final rout, behind 
Soared the Republic's flag, high-floating in the 

wind 
Long may that star-emblazoned banner wave 
Its folds triumphant o'er a land so brave. 
Fanned by no breeze but that which wafts us now 
The laugh of Plenty, leaning on the plough ! 

BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 



184 



AND PLACES. 



THE VALE OF SHANGANAH. 



When I have knelt in the Temple of Duty. 
Worshipping honor and valor and beauty — 
When, like a brave man. in fearless resistance, j 
I have fought the good fight on the field of exis- I 

tence; 
When a home 1 have won in the conflict of labor. 
With truth for my armor and thought for my | 

sabre. 
Be that home a calm home where my old age 
may rally, i 

A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant 
valley. 
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! * 
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
manna, [nah! 

Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanga- ■ 



But here, even here, the lone heart were be- 
nighted. 
No beauty could reach it. if love did not light it : 
'Tis this makes the Earth. Ol what mortal can 

doubt it ? 
A garden with //—but a desert without it I 
With the lov'd one. whoso feelings instinctively 
teach her. 1 feature. 

That goodness of heart makes the beauty of 
How glad through this vale wouUl 1 float down 

life's river. 
Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver ! 
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 
May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
manna. |nah! 

Fall light on my heart in the Vale of Shanga- 
DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



Fair is this isle— this dear child of the ocean- 
Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion ; 
For see ! in what rich robes has Nature arrayed 
her. (Heder. 

From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben 
By Glengariff's lone islets — Loch Lene's fairy 
water. [her; 

So lovely was each that then matchless I thought 
But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented 

alley. 
Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley ! 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

No wide-spreading prairie — no Indian savanna. 

So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah ! 

How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes 
On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, 
From that margin of silver, whereon the blue 
water [daughter! 

Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's 
To where, with the red clouds of morning com- 
bining. 
The tall "Golden Spears" o'er the mountains 

are shining. 

With the hue of their heather, as sunlight 

advances, [lances ! 

Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the \'ale of Shanganah ; 

No lands far away by the calm Susquehannah. 

So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah ! 

• Lying to the south of Killeny hill, near Dublin. 



GOUGAUNE BARRA. 

There is a green island in lone ( '.ougaunc Barra.* 
Where AUua of songs mshes forth as an arrow ; 
In deep-valleyed Desmond — a thousand wild 

fountains 
Come down to that lake from their home in the 

mountains. 
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken 

willow 
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow ; 
As. like some gay child that sad monitor scorning. 
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. 

And its zone of dark hills— oh. to see them all 
briglu'ning. 

When the tempest flings out its red banner of 
lightning. 

And the waters rush down, "mid the thunder's 
deep rattle. 

Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle ; 

And brightly the tire-crested billows are gleaming, 

And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream- 
ing. 

Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland. 

So meet for a bard as this lone little island } 

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, 
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera. 
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home 

by the ocean. 
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, 

• A lake in the western part of the county of Cork, and 



O SWEET ADARE. 



And thouglit of thy bards, when assembling 

together. 
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy 

heather, I 

They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and ; 

slaughter, 
And waked their last song by the rush of thy 

water ! \ 



High sons of the l>Te, oh, how proud was the 

feeling, 
To think while alone through that solitude 

stealing, 
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, 
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber. 
And mingled once more with the voice of those 

fountains 
The song's even echo forgot on her mountains ; 
And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was 

sleeping 
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty 

were creeping. 



Last bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit 
The lire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit. 
With the wrongs which like thee to our country 

has bound me. 
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around 

me. 
Still — still in those wilds might young liberty 

rally. 
And send her strong shout over mountain and 

valley ; 
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory. 
And the land that was darkest be brightest in 

story. 

I, too, shall be gone — but my name shall be 

spoken 
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken ; 
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's 

gleaming. 
When freedom's young light on his spirit is 

beaming. 
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion. 
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of 

ocean, 
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that 

river, 
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping 

forever. 

JAMES J. CAI.I.ANAN. 



GREEN HILLS OF ADAIR. 

How oft in the spirit we yearn 

For faces and forms that have fled ! 

While the calm lights of memory burn. 

How oft from the living we turn 

To the dead ! 

So my thoughts now go wandering back. 

O'er a quiet and shadowy track. 

Till they rest by a murmuring stream. 

Where in years gone I dreamed a sweet dream. 
Among the green hills of Adair — 
The beautiful hills of Adair. 

And a maiden, as sweet as the flowers 

That bloomed by that murmuring stream. 
Walked beside me among the wild bowers. 
Thro' the months, and the days, and the hours 

Of that dream. 
But a messenger cruel as Death 
Broke in on that dream, and her breath 
I'assed away with a prayer and a sigh. 
As that murmuring stream glided by, 
Among the green hills of Adair — 
The beautiful hills of Adair. 

But I wander there yet, and I hear 
The tones of that murmuring stream; 
.And the form and the face that were dear. 
In the beauty of youth reappear; 

And I dream — 
Oh, 1 dream of a land and a life. 
Lying far beyond earth and its strife. 
Wherein, not again to be crossed, 
! shall find the sweet spirit 1 lost 

Among the green hills of Adair, 

The beautiful hills of Adair. 

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. 



SWEET ADARE. 

sweet Adare, O lovely vale, 

O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! 
Nor summer sun nor morning gale 

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 
How shall I tell the thousand charms. 

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling. 
When lulled m Nature's fost'ring arms, 

Soft peace abides and joy e.xcelling ! 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 
The slumbering boughs your song awaken. 

Or linger o'er the silent lawn 
With odor of the harebell taken. 



ibb 



POEMS OF SATURE AND PLACES. 



Thou rising sun. how richly gleams. 

Thy smile from far Knocktiernas mountain 
Oer waving woods and bounding streams, 

And many a grove and glancing fountain. 

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, 

When summer heats the open meadows, 
O'er parched hill and valley fair, 

All coolly lie your veiling shadows. 
Ye rolling shades and vapors gray. 

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven. 
How soft ye seal the eye of day. 

And WTeathe the dusky brow of even. 

In sweet Adare the jocund Spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing. 
The wild birds in the woodland sing, 

The wild flowers in the vale are breathing. 
There winds the Mague, as silver clear. 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing. 
There fragrant in the early year 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank 

Or dives beneath the glistening billow 
Where graceful droop and clustering dank 

The osier bright and rustling willow ; 
The hawthiirn scents the leafy dale, 

In thicket lone the stag is belling. 
And sweet along the echoing vale 

The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



BALLYSPELLIN. 

All you that would retine your blood. 

As pure as famed Llewellyn, 
By waters clean, come every year 

To drink at Ballyspellin.* 

If lady's cheek be green as leek 
When she comes from her dwelling. 

The kindling rose within it glows 
When she's at Ballyspellin. 

The sooty brown, who comes from town, 
Grows here as fair as Helen ; 

Then back she goes to kill the beaux 
By drink of Ballyspellin. 



* Once a famous Spa in Kilkenny. 



Our ladies are as fresh and fair 
As Rose, or bright Dunkelling ; 

And .Mars might make a fair mistake 
Were he at Ballyspellin. 

We men submit as they think fit. 

And here is no rebelling ; 
The reason's plain : the ladies reign, 

They're queens at Ballyspellin. 

By matchless charms, unconquered arms. 
They have the way of quelling 

Such desperate foes as dare oppose 
Their power at Ballyspellin. 

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance, 
To bring their Anne or Nell in, 

With so much grace, I'm sure no place 
Can vie with Ballyspellin. 

No politics, no subtle tricks. 

No man his country selling; 
We eat, we drink, we never think 

Of these at Ballyspellin. 

The troubled mind, the puffed yvith wind, 

Do all come here pell-mell in. 
And they are sure to work their cure 

By drinking Ballyspellin. 

Death throws no darts thro" all these parts 

No sextons here are knelling ; 
Come, judge and try. you'll never die 

Hut Hve at Ballyspellin. 

Except you feel darts tipt with steel 
Which here are every belle in : 

When from their eyes sweet ruin Hies, 
We die at Ballyspellin. 

Within this ground we all sleep sound. 

No noisy dogs a-yelling ; 
Except you wake, for Celia's sake. 

All night at Ballyspellin. 



There all you see, both he and she : 

No lady keeps her cell in : 
But all partake the mirth we make 

Who drink at Ballyspellin. 

THOMAS SHKRIDAN 



MALOGA'S HOLY WELL. 



87 



AT KiLLARNEY-JULY, 1800. 

How soft the pause ! the notes melodious cease, 
Which from each feeling could an echo call ; 
Rest on your oars, that not a sound may fall 
To interrupt the stillness of our peace. 
The fanning west wind breathes upon our cheeks, 
Yet glowing with the sun's departed beams. 
Through the blue heaven the cloudless moon 

pours streams 
Of pure, resplendent light, in silver streaks 
Reflected on the still, unruffled lake ; 
The Alpine hills in solemn silence frown. 
While the dark woods night's deepest shades 

embrown ; 
And now once more that soothing strain awake ! 
Oh. ever to my heart with magic power [hour ! 
Shall those sweet sounds recall that rapturous 

MARY TIGHIi. 



KILLARNEY.* 

By Killarney's lakes and fells, 

Emerald isles and winding bays. 
Mountain paths, and woodland dells. 

Memory ever fondly strays. 
Bounteous nature loves all lands ; 

Beauty wanders everywhere. 
Footprints leaves on many strands. 
But her home is surely there. 
Angels fold their wings and rest 
In that Eden of the west. 
Beauty's home, Killarney, 
Heaven's reflex, Killarney. 

Innisfallen's ruin'd shrine 

May suggest a passing sigh. 
But man's faith can ne'er decline. 
Such God's wonders floating by 
Castle Lough and Glena Bay. 

Mountains Tore and Eagle's nest ; 
Still at Muckross you must pray, 
Though the monks are now at rest. 
Angels wonder not that man 
There would fain prolong life's .span. 
Beauty's home, etc. 

No place else can charm the eye 
With such bright and varied tints 

Every rock that you pass by 
Verdure borders or besprints. 



Virgin there the green grass grows, 

Every morn spring's natal day. 
Bright hued berries daff the snows, 
Smiling winters frown away. 
Angels often pausing there, 
Doubt if Eden were more fair, 
Beauty's home, etc. 



Music there for echo dwells. 

Makes each sound a harmony, 
Many voic'd the chorus swells. 

Till it faints in ecstasy. 
With the charmful tints below 

Seems the heaven above to vie, 
All rich colors that we know 
Tinge the cloud wreaths in that sky. 
Wings of angels so might shine, 
Glancing back soft light divine. 
Beauty's home, etc. 

EDMUND FALCONER. 



* These stanzas are usually ascribed to Balfe, but were 
•itten by Falconer (whose real name was O'Rorke), and sung 
his drama, " The Peep o'Day Boys." 



MALOGA'S HOLY WELL. 

I loved to stray where Puncheon's stream 
Winds thro' fair meadows, vernal dressed. 

And watch the sunlight's farewell gleam 
When cloud-isles floated in the west ; 

No place was there that nursed its tide. 
On which I dearer loved to dwell. 

Than when, entranced. I stood beside 
Maloga's Holy Well. 



The cloister, ivy-clad, looked down 
In solemn splendor o'er the .scene — 

On tombs time-worn to gray or brown- 
Memorials of what once had been. 

The shadow of the hawthorn tree 
Upon its mystic waters fell, 

And wrapped in beauteous mvsterv 

Maloga's Holy Well. 

Upon its velvet, mossy brink 

Betimes I knelt in silent prayer, 
Then from the goblet rose to drink 

The blessed waters sparkling there ; 
I watched its bubbles, rapture-bound, — 

How sweet upon it then to dwell, 

When dreamy stillness reigned around 

Maloga's Holy Well. 



POEMS OF XA TURF. AND PLACES. 



Still memory often pointing back 

To varied joys of vanished years, 
With roses strews the exile's track— 

The exile's lonely spirit cheers ; 
Its wavering hand might cease to trace 
The changing tints of grove and dell. 
But from it time can ne'er efface 

Maloga's Holy Well. 

EUGENE GEARY. 



CLONDALLAGH. 

Are the orchards of Scurragh 

With apples still bending? 
Are the wheat-ridge and furrow 

On Cappaghneale blending ? 
Let them bend— let them blend ! 

Be they fruitful or fallow, 
A far dearer old friend 

Is the bog of Clondallagh ! 

How sweet was my dreaming 

By Brosna's bright water. 
While it dashed away, seeming 

A mountain's young daughter ! 
Yet ti) roam with its foam, 

By the deep reach, or shallow. 
Made but brighter at home 

The turf tires from Clondallagh ! 

If whole days of a childhood 

More mournful than merry, 
I sought thro' the wild wood 

Young bird or ripe berry, 
Some odd sprite, or quaint knight. 

Some Sinbad, or Abdallah, 
Was my chase by the light 

Of bog fir from Clondallagh ! 

There the wild duck and plover 

Have felt me a prowler 
On their thin, rushy cover. 

More fatal than fowler : 
And regret sways me yet. 

For the crash on the callow; 
When the matched hurlers met. 

On the plains of Clondallagh! 

Yea. simply to measure 
The moss with a soundless 

Quick step, was a pleasure 

Strange, stirring, and boundless ; 



For its spring stfemed to fling 

L'p my foot, and to hallow 
My spirit with wing. 

O'er the sward of Clondallagh ! 

But alas ! in the season 

Of blossoming gladness. 
May be strewed over reason 

Rank seeds of vain sadness ! 
While a wild, wayward child, 

With my young heart all callow, 
It was warmed and beguiled 

By dear Jane of Clondallagh ! 

On the form with her seated. 

No urchin dare press on 
My place, while she cheated 

Me into my lesson ! 
But soon came a fond claim 

From a lover to hallow 
His hearth with a dame— 

In my Jane of Clondallagh I 

When the altar had risen. 

From Jane to divide me, 
I seemed in a prison, 

Tho' she still was beside me : 
And I knew more the true. 

From the love, false or shallow. 
The farther I flew 

From that bride, and Clondallagh ! 

JOHN U. KRAZER 



DON ISLE.* 

Lonely beneath the silent stars 

It stands, a gray and moldering pile. 
Wrecked in the wild Cromwellian wars. 

The sea-girt castle of Don Isle. 
The wild waves beat the castle wall. 

And bathe the rocks with ceaseless showers ; 
Dark heaving billows plunge and fall 

In whitening foam beneath the towers. 

High beetling o'er the headland's brow. 

All seamed and battle-scarred it stands. 
And rents and gaping ruins show 

The ravage of the spoiler's hands. 



• Cromwell's siege of Ihe sea-girt castle and fortress of Don 
Isle, which was heroically defended by a female descendant 
of Nicholas Le Poer, Baron of Don Isle, is represented by 
Sir llemard Burke, in his •• Romance of Irish History," ;i5 
•est. See biographical note. 



ABBEY ASS A ROE. 



189 



Two hundred years have rolled away, 
And still, at twilight's haunted hour, 

A ghostly lady seems to stray 
By ruined barbacan and tower. 

Dauntless within her own domain 

She held at bay her father's foe, 
Till faithless followers fired the train 

That laid her feudal fortress low ; 
Afar her exiled children roam ; 

She perished in the smouldering pile. 
The last of all her house and home, 

The lonely lady of Don Isle. 

The gray moss gathers on the wall. 

And low beneath the crowning stars 
The crumbling turrets waste and fall. 

Wrecked in the wild CromwelHan wars ; 
And peasants round their evening fire 

With many a tale the hours beguile. 
Of warrior ghosts and spectres dire. 

That haunt the castle of Don Isle. 

S.\RAH HELEN WHITM.- 



How the ghosts of dead ages must glide thro' 

the gloom, 
And the forms of the mighty arise from the tomb, 
And the dream of the past through the wailing 

winds moan, [own. 

For they twine round the ruin as if 'twere their 

There is an old Castle hangs over the sea. 
And ages of glory yet, yet shall it see, [sky. 

And 'twill smile to the river, and smile to the 
And smile to the free land when long years go by ; 
And children will listen, with rapturous face. 
To the names and the legends that hallow the 

place. 
When some minstrel of Erin, in wandering nigh. 
Shall sing that dear Castle more grandly than I. 

ELLEN DOWNING. 



THE OLD CASTLE. 
There is an old Castle hangs over the sea — 
'Tis living thro' ages, all wrecked tho' it be; 
There's a soul in the ruin that never shall die. 
And the ivy clings round it as fondly as I. 
O ! proud as the waves of that river pass on, 
Their tribute they bear to that Castle so lone. 
And the sun lights its gray head with beams 

from the sky, 
For he loves the dear ruin as fondly as I. 

Right grand is the freedom which dwells on the 

spot, 
For the hand of the stranger can fetter it not ; 
The strength of that Castle its day-spring has 

told. 
But the soul of the ruin looks out as of old ; 
And the river— the river no tyrant could tame- 
Sweeps boldly along without terror or shame ; 
Yet she bends by that Castle so stately and high. 
And sings her own love-song as gladly as I. 

How weird on those waters the shadows must 
seem, [dream. 

When the moonlight falls o'er them as still as a 

And the star-beams awake, at the close of the 
day, 

To gaze on a river eternal as they ! 



ABBEY ASSAROE. 

Grey, grey is Abbey Assaroe, by Ballyshannon 

town. 
It has neither door nor window, the walls are 

broken down ; 
The carven stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle- 
j bed; 

j The only feet are those that come at burial of 

the dead. 
I A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the 
I tide. 

Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in 

pride ; 
The boor-tree and the lightsome ash across the 

portal grow, 
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey 
Assaroe. 

It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban 
mountain blue ; 

It hears the voice of Erna's fall,— Atlantic 
breakers too ; 

High ships go sailing past it ; the sturdy clank 
of oars 

Brings in the salmon boat to haul a net upon the 
shores ; 

And this way to his home-creek, when the sum- 
mer day is done. 

The weary fisher sculls his punt across the set- 
ting sun ; 

While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cot- 
tage white below ; — 

But grey at every season is Abbey Assaroe. 



I90 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



There stood one day a poor old man above its 

broken bridge ; 
He heard no runninjj rivulet, he saw no nioun- 

tain-ridgc ; 
He tum'd his back on Shecjjus Hill, and view'd 

with misty sisjht 
The abbey walls, the burial-jjround with crosses 

ghostly white ; 
Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon 

his stafT, 
I'erusing in the present time the former's epitaph ; 
For, grey and wasted like the walls, a figure full i 

of woe, I 

This man was of the blood of them who founded ] 

Assaroe. 

From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tirconnell 

broad was their's ; 
Spearmen and horsemen, bards and wine, and 

mitred abbot "s prayers ; 
With chanting in the holy house which they had 

builded high 
To God and to Saint Bernard — whereto they 

came to die. 
No workhouse grave for him. at least ! the ruins I 

of his race I 

Shall rest among the ruined stones of this their i 

saintly place. 
The fond old man was weeping, .iiid tremulous ' 

and slow 
Along the rough and crooked road he crept from 

Assaroe. 

WILLIAM ALLINllH.WI. 



WICKLOW. 



Yes, this is Wicklow ; round our feet 
And o'er our heads its woodlands smile ; 

Behold it. love. — the garden sweet 
And playground of our stormy isle. 

Look round thee from this wooded height 
Where, girdled in its sheltering trees. 

Our home uprears its turrets bright, — 
Our own dear home of rest and peace. 

Is it not fair, the leafy land ?— 
Not boasting Nature's sterner pride. 

Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand 
By minds immortal deified ; 

Yet fraught with sweet, resistless spells 
That wake a deep, a tranquil love, — 

The witchery of the ferny dells 
The magic of the murmuring grove, 



The ever-present var>'ing sea. 

The graceful Peaks, the violet hills. 

The fruitful lawn and flowery lea. 
The breezy moors, the golden rills. 

A land with every delicate tint 
Of fleeting shadow, wandering light. 

Rich as the rainbows when they glint 
O'er its own bays ere falls the night. 

1 lere all the year the mountains change 
From month to month, from hour to hour. 

Now rosy-flushed, now dim and strange. 
Now sparkling from the sunlit shower. 

Now far in moving clouds withdrawn ; 

Or gilt with yellowing fern and larch. 
Or smit with crimson beams of dawn, 

Or silvered with the sleets of .March. 

Fair when the first pale primrose shines. 

The first gay moth the furze has kissed ; 
When under t^ittle Giltspear's pines 

The bluebells seem an azure mist ; 

When summer robes with all her leaves 
The rough ravine, the lakelet's shore. 

Or when the reaper piles his sheaves 
Beside the pools of Avonmore ; 

When the brown bee on Croghan bites 
In eager haste the heathbell through. 

And children climb Gleneelys hights. 
To gather fraughans fresh with dew ; 

When grouse lie thick in lonely plots 

On Lugnaquillia's lofty moor. 
And loud the sportsman's echoing shots 

Ring from the rocks of Glenmalure. 

Fair when the woodland strains and creaks 
As loud the gathering whirlwinds blow, 

And thro' the smoke-like mist the Peaks 
In warm autumnal purples glow; 

When madly toss the brackens' plumes 
Storm-swept upon the seaward steep. 

And far below them foams and fumes 
On beach and cliff the wrathful deep. 

Till cloud and tempest, creeping lower. 

Old Djouce's ridges swathe in night, 
And down through all his hollows pour 

The foaming torrents, swollen and white ; 

Or when o'er Powerscourts leafless woods. 

With crests that down the tempest lean. 
Bend, braving winter's fiercest moods. 

The pines in all their wealth of green. 



PLEAS A. XT OLENS OF MU.VSTER. 



191 



A tract of quiet pastoral knolls ; 

Of farms ; of gardens breathing balm ; 
Gray beaches where the billow rolls 

With wandering voice in storm or calm ; 

Of sombre glen and lonely lake. 

Of ivied castles, ruined fanes, 
Wild paths by crag and skyey brake. 

And dewy fields and bowery lanes ; 

With glimpses sweet and prospects wide 
Of sea and sky from wood or scar. 

And faint hills glimmering from the tide 
That tell of other realms afar. 

A spot that owns the priceless charm 
Of gentler human hearts and minds, — 

A people whom the roughest storm 
True to its kindlier impulse finds ; 

A kindly folk in vale and moor, 

Unvexed with rancors, frank and free 

In mood and manners, — rich with poor 
Attuned in happiest amity ; 

Where still the cottage door is wide, 
The stranger welcomed at the hearth. 

And pleased the humbler hearts confide 
Still in the friend of gentler birth ; 

A land where always God's right hand 
Seems stretching downward to caress 

His wayward children as they stand 
And gaze upon its loveliness, 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
rout " De Verdun 0/ Darragk." 



TO WICKLOW. 

Adieu, sweet country ! O'er the roaring deep. 

By the wild tempest on the billows borne, 

A waif of youth, I go : and I could weep 

With childhood's tears to see thee, this fair morn. 

Thy dark peaks lit with blushes of the dawn. 

Thy rough shores beaten by the whitening main. 

Thy lowland paradise of grove and lawn, — 

Encinctured in a bow of jewelled rain ; 

For I may look upon thy face no more 

For many a rolling year. Ah me ! how oft 

By thy wild rivulets and flowery dales. 

Thy broken chapels and thy crumbling towers. 

Thy grand old hills and solitary vales, 

Have I in childhood wandered " • • 



Ah ! happy hours forever flown, 

Forever flown. 
The dark sea with its hollow moan 
Of moonlit waves on wintry shores, 
The darkling cataract that roars 
Through leafless wood and lonely moor. 
The gloomy tarn whose dismal sigh 
Rolls upward toward a stormy sky 
At midnight ; such are as the swell 
Of marriage music to the mournful knell 
Of that deep sigh — " no more I " 
No more ! no more ! 'tis murmured by the breeze. 
The sweet wild breeze that stirs the silvery hair. 
And blows a mist of tearful memories 
In eyes now waxing dim. No more ! no more I 
The pure sweet perfume of the summer air 
At rosy dawn, the heaving ocean-wave 
That breaks in playful spray on glimmering sands. 
Bearing low whisperings from distant lands 
Of those who never may return ; the bloom 
Of flowers that blossom o'er a lonely grave 
Forgotten save by one, whose trembling hands 
Have twined thechaplets, and whose tender eyes 
Weep o'er them year by year ; the purple gloom 
Of even, and the changing lights that fall 
Above the skies of setting suns ; all, all 
One burthen breathe alone— no more ! no more I 

EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 



PLEASANT GLENS OF MUNSTER. 

Pleasant glens of Munster, glorious in the noon- 
light, 
Charming in the moonlight, sparkling in the dew. 
When hath seer or poet, wrapt in visions golden. 
Ever yet beholden sweeter glens than you .' 
There the feathered warbler cheers the shaded 

arbor ; 
There the flowers of morning match the skies of 

blue; 
There the streamlet winding shows delight in 

finding 
Sweet excuse for spending the happy days with 
you. 

On the cliffs that darken where the waves sur- 
round you, 

On the crags that bound you breaks the ocean's 
roar; 

Billows wildly booming, with tyrant force de- 
luded. 

Make hut more secluded the far receding .shore : 



'9- 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



There the rampart swelling guards the chieftain's 
dwelling, 

There the regal ruin teems witli olden lore ; 

There the liumble shealing looks as though re- 
vealing 

A hundred thousand welcomes to all who find 
the door. 

In the blooming gardens walks the rosy maiden [ 
Midst the branches laden down witli fruits un- [ 

told ; 
Where the com is gleaming, moving deep and 

deeper. 
Sweeps the swarthy reaper swatlis of brownish 

gold: \ 

On the swards of silver, where the sloe-trees 

thicken. 
Where the boughs of quicken let the moonbeams 

through, 
Fairy bands sing nightly, as the host advances, 
"Never knew our dances sweeter glens than you." 

Had I bardic vigor to intone your praises, 
'.Mid your verdant mazes I'd take bolder wing, — 
1 would vent my numbers to a theme so tender 
On a harp of spleador and a sounding string; | 
To such task demandful of a soul thus gifted, i 
Since I can't be lifted, what will weakness do.' j 
Dreams and yearnings merely cannot reach it j 
nearly ; [to you. 

Then I'll speak more dearly and send my heart | 

FRANCIS 0'RY.\N. ! 



ARBOR HILL' 



No rising column marks this spot 

Where many a victim lies ; 
But oh ! the blood whicli here has streamed. 

To heaven for justice cries. 

It claims it on the oppressor's head. 

Who joys in human woe. 
Who drinks the tears by misery shed. 

And mocks them as they flow. 

It claims it on the callous judge. 
Whose hands in blood are dyed. 

Who arms injustice with the sword. 
The balance throws aside. 



It claims it for its ruined Isle, 
Her wretched children's grave ; 

Where withered Freedom droops her head. 
.\nd man exists— a slave. 

O sacred Justice! from this land 

From tyranny abhorred ; 
Resume thy balance and thy seat. 

Resume — but sheathe thy sword. 

No retribution should we seek — 

Too long has horror reigned ; 
By mercy marked may Freedom rise. 

By cruelty unstained. 

Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix 
With those our martyred dead ; 

This is the place where Erin's sons. 
In Erin's cause have bled. 

And those who here are laid at rest. 

Oh ! hallowed be each name ! 
Their memories are forever blest — 

Consigned to endless fame. 

Unconsecrated is this ground. 

Unblessed by holy hands ; 
No bell here tolls its solemn sound. 

No monument here stands. 

But here the patriot's tears are shed. 
The poor man's blessing given : 

These consecrate the virtuous dead. 
These waft their fame to heaven. 

ROBERT KMMKT. 



MY MOUNTAIN GLENS. 

Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 

Of pleasures, won thro' toil or crime ; 
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill. 

And give thy name to future time ; 
Philosophy, be keen to see 

Whate'er is just, or false, or vain. 
Take each thy meetl ; but oh I give me 

To range my mountain glens again. 

Pure was the breeze that fanned my cheek. 

As o er Knockmany's brow 1 went. 
When every lonely dell could speak 

In airy mu.sic, vision sent ; — 
False world, I hate thy cares and thee. 

I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
Give back my early heart to me, 

Give back to me my mountain glen. 



THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 



193 



How light my youthful visions shone. 

When spanned by Fancy's radiant form ; 
But now the glittering- bow is gone, 

And leaves me but the cloud and storm. 
With wasted form and cheek all pale, 

With heart long seared by grief and pain, 
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, 

I'll tread my mountain glens again. 

Thy breeze once more may fan my blood. 

Thy valleys all are lovely still ; 
And I may stand where oft I stood, 

In lonely musings on thy hill. 
But. ah ! the spell is gone, — no art. 

In crowded town, or native plain. 
Can teach a crushed and breaking heart 

To pipe the song of youth again. 

WILLI.\M CARLETON. 



THE HAUNTED CASTLE. 
"How beautiful! — how beautiful!" — cried out 

the children all. 
As the golden harvest evening's moon beamed 

down on Donegal ; 
And its yellow light that danced along the Esker 

to the Bay — 
There tinged the roofless Abbey's walls, here 

gilt the Castle gray. 
" How beautiful ! — how beautiful ! — let us go 

hide and seek " — 
Some run along the river's edge, some crouch 

beside the creek ; 
While two, more dauntless than the rest, climb 

o'er the Castle's wall. 
And without note on horn or trump, parade the 

princely hall. 

Brave little boys, as bright as stars, beneath the 

porch they pass'd. 
And paused just where along the hall, the keep 

its shadow cast ; 
And, heaven protect us ! there they saw a strange 

fire burn away. 
And, sitting in the ingle-nook, an ancient man 

and gray ; 
He sat upon his stony seat like to another stone. 
And ever from his breast there brake a melan- 
choly moan : 
But the little boys they feared him not, for they 

were two to one. 
And the man was stooped and aged, and sad to 

look upon. 



And he who was the eldest— his mother called 

him Hugh — 
Said, "Why for, sir, do you make moan, and 

wherefore do you rue } 
Are you one of the old-time kings, lang syne 

exiled to Spain, 
Like a linnet to its last year's nest, that here 

returns again?" 
And the shape stood up and smiled, as the tiny 

voice he heard. 
And the tear that hung upon his cheek fell to 

his snowy beard — 
"My boys," he said, "come sit ye here beside 

me, until I 
Tell you why I haunt this earth, and what so 

makes me sigh. 

" I am the Father of their Race — the Cinnel- 

Connell's sire — 
And therefore thus I watch their home, and 

kindle still their fire ; 
For the mystic heat would perish amid a land of 

slaves 
If it were not tended nightly by the spirits from 

their graves ; 
And here I still must keep my stand until the 

living are 
Deemed meet to track the men of might along 

the fields of war ; 
And, ah! my little men," he said, " my watch 

is very long — 
Unpromised of an early end — uncheered by 

friend or song. 

■' And the present is embittered by the memories 

of old,— 
The bards and their delights, and the tales the 

gossips told ; 
I remember me the ringing laughs and minstrel- 

sie divine 
That echoed here for Nial Garv and Thorlough 

of the Wine ; 
I remember how brave Manus — an early grave 

he met— 
Traced the story here of Columb-cille, a tale 

surviving yet ; 
And, O! I weep like Jacob when of Joseph's 

death he heard. 
When I think upon you, young Hugh Roe, 

Tyrconnell's staff and sword ! 

" My boys, he was not thirty years of age, 

although his name 
Was spread all over Ireland upon the wings of 

fame ; 



194 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



Entrapped, imprisoned, frozen, on Wicklows 

wintry hills, 
He rose, he fought, he died afar, crowning our 

country's ills; — 
Alas! 1 cannot help but cry— and you. what, 

crying, too.' 
Indeed it might melt iron hearts to think upon 

my Hugh. 
My boys, go home, remember him. and hasten 

to be men. 
That you may act. on Irish soil, his gallant part 

again." 

" How beautiful ! -how beautiful !" cried out the 

children all. 
As the two boys clambered over the ancient 

Castle wall ; 
" Run here — run there — take care — take care ;" 

but silently and slow — 
To humble homes, the little friends, warm hand 

in hand, they go ; 
And from that night they daily read in all the 

quiet nooks 
About their homes, old Irish songs and new- 
made Irish books; 
And many a walk and many a talk they had 

down by the Bay, 
Of the Spirit of the Castle Hall, and the words 

they heard him say. 

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



SONG OF INNISHOWEN. 

God bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal, 

God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them all ; 

For she sits evermore like a Queen on her throne. 

And smiles on the valleys of Green Innishowen, 

And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen, 

And hardy the fishers that call them their own — 

A race that nor traitor nor coward have known 

Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen. 

O ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear. 
Like the hills that with silence and nature they 
share ; | his own, 

For our God. who hath planted their home near 
Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen. 
Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen. 
Where fiercely for ever the surges are thrown— 
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown 
Could «hake the strong bosoms of brave In- 
nishowen. 



See the bountiful Coutdah careering along — 
A type of their manhood so stately and strong 
On the wear)' for ever its tide is bestown, 
So they share with the stranger in fair Iniii 
howen. 
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inni 

howen. 
Which manhood and nrtue have chosen i 

their own ; 
Not long shall that nation in slavery groan. 
That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen. 



Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor 

Dane. 
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her 

fane. 
They have clung by the creed and the cause of 

their own 
Through the midnight of danger in true Innis- 
howen. 
Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen. 
The stronghold that foeman have never o'er- 

thrown — 
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the boii. 
That guard the green valleys of true Innis- 
howen. 



Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael. 
When the charging aboo made the foreigner quail ; 
Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft 

tone. 
In the home-loving cabins of kind Innishowen. 
O ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen 
Where seeds of a people's redemption .ir 

sown ; 
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have 

grown. 
To bless the kind homesteads of green Innis- 
howen. 



When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band 

All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords 
in hand. 

Who await but the sword to give Erin her own. 

They can read you that riddle in proud Innis- 
howen. 
Hurrah for the spaemenof proud Innishowen!— 
Long live the wild Seers of stout Innishowen!— 
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan 
Who love not the promise of proud Innishowen! 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 



195 



TIPPERARY. 

Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the 
fields are so sunny and green, 

And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Gal- 
tees look down with so proud a mien ? 

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on 
all Irish ground — 

God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where 
could your inatch be found ? 

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness 
is in your eye : 

But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and 
bitter a lie. 

O! no, macushla storin ! bright, bright, and 
warm are you, 

With hearts as bold as the men of old, to your- 
selves and your country true. 

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them 

think who has brought it there — 
Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made 

for your face so fair ; 
You've a hand for the grasp of friendship— 

another to make them quake, 
And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases 

them most to take. 

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be 

crumbled before our eyes ? 
Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all 

that we love and prize ? 
No ! by those who were here before us, no churl 

shall our tyrant be ; 
Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, 

ourselves are free. 

No ! we do not forget the greatness did once to 

sweet Erie belong ; 
No treason or craven spirit was ever our race 

among ; 
And no frown or no world of hatred we give — 

but to pay them back ; 
In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome 

track. 

O ! come for a while among us, and give us the 

friendly hand ; 
And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and 

gladsome land ; 
From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes 

and smiles will spring , 
On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a 

king. 

EVA M.\RV KELLV. 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 

Fair was that eve, as if from earth away 

All trace of sin and sorrow 
Passed, in the light of the eternal day, 

That knows nor night nor morrow. 

The pale and shadowy mountains, in the dim 

And glowing distance piled ! 
A sea of light along the horizon's rim, 

Unbroken, undefiled ! 

Blue sky, and cloud, and grove, and hill, and glen, 

The form and face of man 
Beamed with unwonted beauty, as if then 

New earth and heaven began. 

Yet heavy grief was on me, and I gazed 
On thee through gushing tears. 

Thou relic of a glory that once blazed 
So bright in bygone years ! 

Wreck of a ruin ! lovelier, holier far. 

Thy ghastly hues of death, 
Than the cold forms of newer temples are — 

Shrines of a priestless faith. 

In lust and rapine, treachery and blood, 

Its iron domes were built ; 
Darkly they frown, where God's own altars stood, 

In hatred and in guilt. 

But to make thee, of loving hearts the love, 

Was coined to living stone ; 
Truth, peace, and piety together strove 

To form thee for their own. 

And thou wast theirs, and they within thee met. 

And did thy presence fill ; 
And their sweet light, even while thine own is set. 

Hovers around thee still. 

It is not work of mind, or hand, or eye. 

Builder's or sculptor's skill. 
Thy site, thy beauty, or thy majesty — 

Not these my bosom thrill. 

'Tis that a glorious monument thou art. 

Of the true faith of old. 
When faith was one in all the nation's heart. 

Purer than purest gold. 

A light, when darkness on the nations dwelt. 

In Erin found a home — 
The mind of Greece, the warm heart of the Celt, 

The bravery of Rome. 



196 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



But O ! the pearl, the gem, the glory of her youth. And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and preci' > 
That shone upon her brow ; And gems beyond all price. [stoti' 

She clung forever to the Chair of Truth — 1 And priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's bones, 

Clings to it now ! ' And daily sacrifice. 



Love of my love, and temple of my God ! 

How would I now clasp thee 
Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast trod. 

So with thee trodden be ! 

O, for one hour a thousand years ago. 

Within thy precincts dim. 
To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow. 

Of psalmody and hymn ! 

To see of priests the long and wliite array. 

Around thy silver shrines — 
The people kneeling prostrate far away. 

In thick and checkered lines. 

To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest. 

Their prelate and their king. 
The sacred bread and chalice by him blest. 

Earth's holiest offering. 

To hear, in piety's own Celtic tongue, 
The most heart-touching prayer 

That fervent suppliants e'er was heard among.— 
O, to be then and there ! 

There was a time all this within thy walls 
Was felt, and heard, and seen ; 

Faint image only now thy sight recalls 
Of all that once hath been. 

The creedless. heartless, murderous robber came. 

And never since that time 
Round thy torn altars burned the sacred flame. 

Or rose the chant sublime. 

Thy glory in a crimson tide went down. 

Beneath the cloven hoof — 
Altar and priest, mitre, and cope, and crown. 

And choir, and arch, and roof. 

O, but to see, when thou wilt rise again— 

For thou again wilt rise — 
And with the splendors of thy second reign 

Dazzle a nation's eyes ! 

Children of those who made thee what thou wast. 
Shall lift thee from the tomb, | 

And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past, ' 
In more celestial bloom. 



And endless prayer, and cruciti.x, and shrine. 

And ail religion's dower. 
And thronging worshippers shall yet be thine - 

O, but to see that hour ! 

And who shall smite thee then .'—and who sli, 
see 

Thy second glory o'er ? | f r< 

When thev who make thee free themselves .1 

To'fall no more. 

PATRICK MURk.A\ 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 

With deep affection 

And recollection 
1 often think of those Shandon bells. 

Whose sound so wild would, 

In days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 

On this 1 ponder, 

Where'er 1 wander, 
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; 

With thy bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 

Full many a clime in. 
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; 

While at a glib rate 

Brass tongues would vibrate, 
But all their music spoke naught like thine : 

For memory dwelling 

On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free. 

Made the bells of Shandon, 

Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 

•• Old Adrian's Mole " in. 
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, 

And cymbals glorious. 

Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame : 




CT/cyaru:^ c_x c 



THE ALHAMBRA. 



[97 



But thy sounds were sweeter 

Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly 

O ! the bells of Shandon, 

Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 

While on tower and kiosko 
In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, 

And loud in air, 

Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit of tall minarets. 

Such empty phantom, 

I freely grant 'em ; 
But there's an anthem more dear to me, — 

'Tis the bells of Shandon, 

That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

FR.4NCIS S. MAHONV. 



But now the mountain flowers have lost their 

rich perfume. 
And the lark has now no rapture, the nodding 

rose no bloom. 
Since they took you from the ocean to lay you in 
the tomb. 

Never merry 
Shall sound for me sweet bells of Londonderry. 

But merrily they'll sound when my heart has 

passed away, 
To the fisher near his nets, and the hillmen 

mowing hay. 
To mothers at their doorsteps, and lovers in the 
May, 

Making merry. 
Shall chime the silver bells of Londonderry. 

JOHN KANE. 



THE BELLS OF LONDONDERRY. 

How sweetly rang the bells when we chased the 

honey bee, 
And loudly sang the lark to you, love, and to me. 
While winds of sunny April were whi.spering in 
glee; 

Sing merry ! 
When childhood heard the bells of London- 
derry. 

How softly rang the bells when we clomb the 

misty hill, 
When we reached the pebbled cradle of the 

foamy mountain rill. 
And pledged our lo\e at noontide when every 
bird was still; 

Sing merry ! 
So clearly rang the bells of Londonderry. 

And sprightly was the dancing beneath the 

flowered thorn, 
When the little eastern moonlight, like plenty's 

golden horn. 
Lit our way from stile to stile through the fields 
of whispering corn. 

Sing merry ! 
So gayly rang the bells of Londonderry. 



THE ALHAMBRA. 

Palace of beauty ! where the Moorish lord. 
King of the bow, the bridle and the sword, 
Sat like a genie in the diamond's blaze. 
Oh ! to have seen thee in the ancient days. 
When at the morning gates the coursers stood, 
The " thousand " milk-white. Yemen's fiery blood, 
In pearl and ruby harnessed for the king ; 
And thro' thy portals poured the gorgeous flood 
Of jewelled Sheik and emir, hastening. 
Before the sky the dawning purple showed, 
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. 

Lovely thy morn, — thy evening lovelier still. 
When at the waking of the first blue star 
That trembled on the Atalaya hill. 
The splendors of the trumpet's voice arose. 
Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war 
But summoning thy beauty from repose. 
The shaded slumber of the burning noon. 
Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, 
Shooting the sparkling column from the vase 
Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze 
Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry. 
And the rich bordering beds of every bloom 
That breathes to African or Indian sky. 
Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone. 

Then was the harping of the minstrel heard 
In the deep arbors, or the regal hall. 
Hushing the tumult of the festival. 
When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball reared. 



198 



/'O/iMS Ol- j\A TUKE A.\i) /•LACES. 



And told of eastern glories, silken hosts, 

Towered elephants, and chiefs in topaz armed : 

Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts 

Of the far western sea. the sons of blood, 

The iron men of tournament and feud, 

That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarmed. 

Doomed by the Moslem's scimetar to fall ; 

Till the Red Cross was hurled from Salem's wall. 

Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun. 
That had no rival and no second ? — gone ! 
Thy glory down the arch of time has rolled. 
Like the great day-star, to the ocean dim ; 
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim. 
Gloomy and fathomless ; thy tale is told. 
Where is thy horn of battle ? that but blown, 
Brought every chief of .\fric from his throne ; 
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall ; 
Brought every charger barbed from the stall. 
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore. 
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour 
The living deluge on the fields of Spain. 
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain 
Upon thy brow — the stain of guilt and gore ; 
Thy course was bright, bold, treacherous — and 

'tis o'er. 
The spear and diadem are from thee gone ; 
Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! 

GEORGE CROLY. 



MESOLONGHI'S RUINS. 

Glorious spirits ! ye have past : 
On the ground your blood is cast. 

Tower and bastion all are won. 
Round the new Thermopylae 
Lies the gore and lies the clay. 

To high heaven the soul is gone. 

Flow my tears ! Nay, let no tear 
Stain the slumbers of that bier. 

Till the tear of blood shall come. 
None o'er you the turf must spread, 
Naked lie, ye gallant dead, 

Naked wait the hour of doom. 

Shame to Europe ! On her ear. 
Night and day, and month, and year, 

While arose your agony, — 
While before the Ottoman 
Christian blood in torrents ran. 

She could calmly see you die. 



Shame to Europe ! when her hand 
Could have crush 'd the ruffian band. 

Like the worm beneath her feet. 
Let her now bemoan, bepraise. 
Will it quench your ramparts' blaze } 

Will it rend your winding sheet .' 

Gold and empire, mighty things ! 
What are ye when Time's wild wings 

Smite ye, as he rushes on .' 
Down go sceptre, shield and bust ; 
Babylon is dust to dust ; 

Rome is widow'd, worthless, lone ! 

But till earth shall groan her last. 
Ne'er shall this spot be o'erpast ; 

Eyes shall weep and hearts shall swell ; 
Aye, and flame, with freedom's flame. 
When is heard its fated name. 

Sublime, indelible ! 

Down shall go your murderer's reign 
Like an universal stain ; 

Down the turban 'd Kfead shall go. 
Come the stroke from man or heaven. 
Blood shall for your blood be given, 

Woe be measured for your woe ! 

Mesolonghi, till the day 
Of the pillar 'd earth's decay 

Thou shalt be a holy shrine, 
Wreck'd and ruin'd as thou art. 
Consecrated to the heart, 

Glory be to thee and thine. 

GEORGE CROLY. 



THE ABBEY OF CARENNAC. 

I Here in God's house of the open dome. 
Vigil is kept by the pilgrim breeze ; 
Here, from its sun-illumined tome. 

Labor entones its litanies. 
For discipline here is the chastening rain ; 

For burden, the fruit of the bending tree ; 
The thorn of the rose for a pleasant pain. 

And palm for a costless victory. 
Oh ! if my vow but bound to these, 
'Twere long ere my laggard steps grew slack ; 
Oh ! that the wilful world would please 
, To leave me my flocks, my birds and bees, 
j My ivied stall and my hours of ease, 
I And my little Abbey of Carennac. 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 



199 



Far from the city's guarded gate. 

Free from the crush of its silken crowds, 
I see the sun in his purple state. 

And the changing face of the courtier clouds. 
My thoughts are mine when my task is sped ; 

My head aches not, and my heart is full ; 
And the laurels that cumber my careless tread 

Are the only ones that I choose to pull. 
Away from my friends I love them best ; 

Away from my books no lore I lack ; 
Here — no longer a flying guest. 
With wavering foot that finds no rest, — 
Truth comes home to this lovely breast 

In this little Abbey of Carennac. 

Thus, half hid from the smile of spring. 

Under the bough of a blossomed tree, 
My single wish is the grace to sing 

The praise of a spot where a bard should be. 
Sounding clear as the forest call, 

Wakening man in the monarch's breast, 
Many-voiced as the water's fall, — 

Speaking to every soul's unrest. 
My song should seize with a minstrel sway 

Yon green twin isles and their busy hac. 
The hamlet white, and the convent gray. 
And the lodge for the wanderer on his way ; 
And thus to France in my little lay 

Give my little Abbey of Carennac. 

To journey again on the hard highway, 

To enter a garrulous, troublous train ; 
Uncalled to come, and unbid obey. 

To feign it pleasure and feel it pain ; 
To float, a straw on an idle stream ; 

To glitter, a mote by the sunbeam sought. 
To walk, a shade in a waking dream ; 

To strive for nothings where all is nought. 
An iron tongue to summon away. 

And a rope of sand to hold me back, 
Are the call to go and the will to stay; 
Clamorous Duty and still delay — 
Oh, gilded gloom! oh, green and gay 

Of my little Abbey of Carennac. 

Fields that teem with the fruits of peace. 

Let your reapers reap and your binders bind ; 
1 cannot flee, for a fond caprice 

Yon stony spot to my hand assigned. 
To me are numbered the seeds that grow; 

Not mine the loss of the perished grain. 
If, working, I watch for the time to sow. 

And waiting, pray for the sun and rain. 



My day to God and the king I lend ; 

The wish of my heart will bring me back 
A few last lightsome hours to spend, 
And to pass with my life-long-looked-for friend,' 
Through a quiet night and a peaceful end, 

From my little Abbey of Carennac. 



JULIA M. O'RYAN. 



-From the French i 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was 

dearth of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him while his life 

blood ebbed away, 
And bent with pitying glances to hear what he 

might say. 
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that com- 
rade's hand, 
Antl he said : " I never more shall see my own, 

my native land ; 
Take a message and a token to some distant 

friends of mine. 
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the 

Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, when they 

meet and crowd around, 
To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vine- 
yard ground. 
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the 

day was done. 
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the 

setting sun. 
And amidst the dead and dying were some grown 

old in wars. 
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the 

last of many scars ; 
And some were young — and suddenly beheld 

life's morn decline ; 
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on 
I the Rhine. 

■■ Tell my mother that her other sons shall com- 
' fort her old age, 

] And I was but a truant bird, that thought my 

home a cage : 
i For my father was a soldier, and even as a child, 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of strug- 
gles fierce and wild; 



200 



POEMS OF NATURE ANt) PLACES. 



And when he died, and left us to diWde his 

scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my 

father's sword ; 
And with boyish love 1 hung it where the bright 

light used to shine 
On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm IJingen on 

the Rhine! 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob 

with drooping head. 
When the troops are marching home again, with 

glad and gallant tread ; 
But to look ufwn them proudly, with a calm and 

steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid 

to die. 
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my 

name. 
To listen to him kindly, wHthout regret or shame; 
And to hang the old sword in its place (my 

father's sword and mine) — 
For the honor of old Bingen— dear Bingen on 

the Rhine ! 



And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in 

mine. 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen 

on the Rhine." 

His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was 

childish weak — 
His eyes put on a dying look — he sighed ami 

ceased to speak ; 
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark nf 

life had (led— 
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — 

was dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly 

she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle field, with bloody 

corpses strewn ; 
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 

seemed to shine. 
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on 

the Rhine. 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



" There's another— not my sister ; in the happy ' 

days gone by, j 

You'd have known her by the merriment that 

sparkled in her eye ; | 

Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle 

scorning — 
O, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes some- i 

times heaviest mourning ; ] 

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the j 

moon be risen, I 

My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of 

prison) 
I dreamed 1 stood with her, and saw the yellow 

sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on 

the Rhine ! 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along— I heard, or 
seemed to hear. 

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus 
sweet and clear ; 

And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting , 
hill. I 

The echoing chorus sounding through the even- j 
ing calm and still ; 

And her glad blue eye was on me as we passed i 
with friendly talk ' 

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- 
remembered walk. i 



IN ROME. 
At last the dream of youth 

Stands fair and bright before me. 
The sunshine of the home of truth 

Falls tremulously o'er me ; 

And tower and spire, and lofty dome 
In brightest skies are gleaming ; 

Walk I, to-day, the streets of Rome, 
Or am I only dreaming ? 

No. 'tis no dream ; my very eyes 

Gaze on the hilltops seven ; 
Where crosses rise and kiss the skies. 

And grandly point to heaven. 

Gray ruins loom on ever)- side. 

Each stone's an age's stor)- ; 
They seem the very ghosts of pride 

That watch the grave of glory. 

There senates sat. whose sceptre sought 

An empire without limit : 
Theirgrandeur dreamed its dream, and thought 

That death would never dim it. 

There rulers reigned ; yon heap of stones 
Was once their gorgeous palace ; 

Beside them now, on altar thrones. 
The priests lift up the chalice. 



ROME UN VI SI TED. 



There legions marched, with buclclers bright. 

And lances lifted o'er them. 
While flags, like eagles plumed for fight. 

Unfurled their wings before them. 

There poets sang, whose deathless name 

Is linked to deathless verses ; 
There heroes hushed, with shouts of fame. 

There trampled victim's curses. 

There marched the warriors back to home. 

Beneath yon crumbling portal. 
And placed upon the brow of Rome 

The proud crown of immortal. 

There soldiers stood with armor on. 

In steel-clad ranks and serried. 
The while their red swords flashed upon 

The slaves whose rights they buried. 

Here Pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, 
And fame would not forsake it, 

Until a simple cross of wood 
Came from the East to break it. 

That Rome is dead — here is the grave — 

Dead glory rises never ; 
And countless crosses o'er it wave. 

And will wave on forever. 

Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome 

Above the hilltops seven ; 
It arches o'er the world from Rome, 

And leads the world to heaven. 

.\BRAM J. RYAN. 



ROME UNVISITED. 
I. 
The corn has turned from gray to red. 
Since first my spirit wandered forth 
From the drear cities of the north. 
And to Italia's mountains fled. 

And here I set my face toward home. 
For all my pilgrimage is done, 
Although, methiiiks, yon blood-red sun 

Marshals the way to Holy Rome. 

O Blessed Lady, who dost hold 
Upon the seven hills thy reign I 
O Mother without blot or stain. 

Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold ! 



O Roma, Roma, at thy feet 
I lay this barren gift of song ! 
For, ah ! the way is steep and long 

That leads unto thy sacred street. 

II. 

And yet what joy it were for me 
To turn my feet unto the south, 
And journeying toward the Tiber mouth 

To kneel again at Fiesole ! 

And wandering through the tangled pines 
That break the gold of Arno's stream. 
To see the purple mist and gleam 

Of morning on the Appenines ; 

By many a vineyard-hidden home. 
Orchard, and olive-garden gray, 
Till from the drear Campagna's way 

The seven hills bear up the dome ! 



III. 

A pilgrim from the northern seas — 
What joy for me to seek alone 
The wondrous Temple, and the throne 

Of Him who holds the awful keys ! 

When, bright with purple and with gold, 
Come priest and holy Cardinal, 
And borne above the heads of all 

The gentle Shepherd of the Fold. 

O joy to see before I die 
The only God-anointed King, 
And hear the silver trumpets ring 

A triumph as he passes by ! 

Or at the altar of the shrine 
Holds high the mystic sacrifice. 
And shows a God to human eyes 

Beneath the veil of bread and wine. 



IV. 

For lo ! what changes time can bring ! 
The cycles of revolving years 
May free my heart from all its fears,- 

And teach my lips a song to sing. 

Before yon field of trembling gold 
Is garnered into dusty sheaves, 
Or ere the autumn's scarlet leaves 

Flutter as birds adown the wold. 



POEMS OF NA TURE AND PLACES. 



I may have run the glorious race, 

And caught the torch while yet aHame, 
And called upon the holy name 

Of Him who now doth hide His face. 



SONG OF FIRE. 



DSCAU WILDE. 



MONTEREY. 

In a mantle of old traditions. 

In the rime of a vanished day. 
The shrouded and silent city 

Sits by her crescent bay. 

The ruined fort on the hill-top, 
Where never a bunting streams. 

Looks down, a cannonless fortress, 
On the solemn city of dreams. 

Gardens of wonderful roses. 

Climbing o'er roof-tree and wall. 
Woodbine and crimson geranium. 

Hollyhocks, purple and tall. 

Mingle their odorous breathings 

With the crisp salt breeze from the sands. 
Where pebbles and sounding sea-shells 

Are gathered by children's hands. 

Women with olive faces 

.•Vnd the liquid Southern eye. 
Dark as the forest berries 

That grace the woods in July, 

Tenderly train the roses 

Gathering here and there 
.-V bud, — the richest and rarest — 

For a place in their long dark hair. 

Feeble and garrulous old men 

Tell, in the Spanish tongue. 
Of the good, grand times at the Mission, 

And the hymns the Fathers sung ; 

Of the oil, and the wine, and the plenty. 
And the dance in the twilight gray ; 

" Ah, those." and the heads shake sadly, 
" Were good times in Monterey." 

Behind in the march of cities, 

The last in the eager stride 
Of village and town and hamlet, 

She dreams by the ocean's side. 

DANIEL O'CONN'ELL. 



1 Sometimes prisoned at the centre, with my throt - 
■ I shake the sphere ; 

Through the snowy-topped volcanoes, at il 
I surface I appear. 

i Then 1 burst through chains that bind me, start ;■ 
I mortals with my power ; 

Over prairies wide I scurry, feed on forests, towi i 
devour; 

Strike the ships midway in ocean, and the teen- 
ing towns devour. 

Fire they call me. I am father of the graiiii- 

rocks that lie 
Ages deep beneath the mountains, unpcrceived 

of mortal eye ; 
At my breath they sprang to being, at my touch 

their crystals came. 
That were merely shapeless atoms ere 1 kissed 

them with my flame. 
Ere with ardor I embraced them, ere I kissed 

them with my flame. 

I Rarest gems of countless value, nuggets of the 

yellow gold 
I That through all the time historic, men and em- 
pires has controlled ; 

And the grim and swarthy iron, conqueror on 
land and sea, 

With the many meaner metals, owe their birth 
and shape to me. 

Gleaming ores and dazzling crystals owe their 
birth and shape to me. 

When the rolling of the thunder strikes the 

trembling wretches dumb. 
When the vision-blinding lightning rends the 

murky clouds, I come. 
Fear attends me, horror after, ruin round me 

wide I cast. 
Men my name with bated breathing mutter when 

my steps have passed : 
Gazing voiceless on the ashes where my terribh 

steps have passed. 

Rear they palaces of beauty, fair without and 

rare within. 
Stores of hand -work, filled with fabrics, wealth 

and profits hard to win ; 
I Temples grand, with costly altars, where the 

wretch for sin atones. 
I appear and they are ruins, shapeless heaps of 
! blackened stones — 

Molten metal, crumbled columns, timbers charred, 

and blackened stones. 



CALIFORNIA'S MISSION RELICS. 



:c3 



Not alone on land I smite them, but with red, 

devouring lips 
On the ocean sate my hunger with their richly 

freighted ships 
Swarthy sailors, pallid women, pray in vain for 

mercy there. 
While my crackling and my roaring swell their 

chorus of despair — 
While I dance from deck to mast-head to their 

chorus of despair. 

In the densely crowded city, without pity, I 

affright 
Startled wretches roused from slumber, in the 

still and sombre night. 
Tenement house or brown-stone palace, either is 

the same to me ; 
If they manage to subdue me, gloomy will their 

triumph be — 
Toppled walls upon my foeman tokens of my 

vengeance be. 

Yet malign I am not always ; witness for me 

truly when 
I become the humble servant of the toiling sons 

of men. 
Drive the engine, heat the furnace, melt the ore 

and soften steel ; 
Like the monarch in the story, aid the wife to 

cook a meal — 
Monarch, wandering from earth's centre, aid the 

wife to cook a meal. 

Tho' they see me when the lightning strikes in 
wrath the lofty domes, 

Yet I love to cheer the dweller in the lowly cot- 
tage homes. 

From the hearth my flickering shadows on the 
wall I cast at night. 

While I crackle — that's my laughter — at the 
children's wild delight ; 

As to see those tossing shadows they display 
their wild delight. 

Foe of life have mortals called me — foe of all 

that breathes or stirs, 
Hence the terror-stricken pagans are my abject 

worshippers. 
Life ! there were no life without me ; and what 

time I shall e.xpire, 
All things growing, all things living, all shall pass 

away with fire. 
Air, heat, motion, breath, existence — all shall 

pass away with fire. 



In the solemn Day of Judgment, at the awful 

time of doom. 
When all quick and dead are parted, there to 

light and those to gloom, 
Then the earth that one time bore me, wrapped 

within my wild embrace. 
Shall behold my final splendor as I bear her out 

of space ; 
And we twain shall pass together, pass forever 

out of space. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 



CALIFORNIA'S MISSION RELICS. 

Full many a theme of twilight song and story 

Yet lives in elder lands ; 
The stern-eyed sphinx uplifts her forehead hoary 

Above the desert sands ; 



And Greece still holds, with firm, defiant power. 

From Lethe's dread abyss. 
The ruined walls that yet so richly dower 

Her proud Acropolis. 

The castled height— of legends quaint and olden 

The fierce and fitting shrine- 
Still darkly shine within the sunset golden 

That lights the mystic Rhine. 

But these are records of a clouded ,glor\\ 
When wrong o'ermastered right ; 

One burden dread fills all their sounding story— 
The ruthless rule of might. 

Ah ! fairer far the relics thou enshrinest, 

Bright sovereign of the West ! 
O'er sacred walls a fadeless wreath thou twinest — 

The amaranth of the blest ! 

Nor Egypt's fanes, nor stately domes enclosing 

The sculptured gods of Greece, 
Can match the home of love divine reposing 

Beneath the wings of peace. 

No feudal halls, no banner-flaunting tower, 

Frowned grimly o'er the land ; 
Nor vassal trains, nor mail-clad hands of power 

Enforced a stern command. 



204 



POEMS OF NATURE AND PLACES. 



Humbly they stood, yet crowned with sunny 
Those wondrous walls of clay ; [splendor, 

A i)o\vL-r benigfn, an influence sweet and tender, 
I k'ld there its potent sway. 



And knees were bent, when sang the angel-story 

From out the mission-tower. 
While gleamed its cross with halo-crown of glory. 

Twined by the sunset hour. 



The gray-robed monk, the messenger of Heaven. And so, when crime, with trail of serpent blighted 



There ruled his willing band ; 
No blood-spot clung, nor taint of worldly leaven. 
To that anointed hand. — 



The sheen of stately halls. 
The tender beam of Eden-blessings lighted 
Those rude adob^ walls. 



That steadfast hand, to truth securely leading O golden land, thy richest, rarest treasure 

The forest's wayward child, — Dwells not in darksome mines ; |ure — 

That gentle hand, that tamed with silent pleading , Still prouder wealth thou hast in countles.s meas- 
The savage nature wild. Thy holy mission-shrines. 



There docile hearts bowed low in adoration 
When 'neath that humble dome, 

In sacred rite, in endless clean oblation 
Love sought His earthly home. 



Let Eastern lands yet vaunt in song and story 

Their ivy-mantled halls ; 
A halo-flame, a nimbus wreath of glory, 

Encrowns thy sacred walls. 

HARRIET .M. SKID.MORE. 



PART IV. 

POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



The world was made when a man was born : 

He must taste for himself the forbidden springs ; 

He can never take warning from old-fashioned things ; 

He must fight as a boy, he must drink as a youth, 

He must roam, he must love, he must swear to the truth 

Of the friend of his soul, he must laugh to scorn 

The hint of deceit in a woman's eyes, 

That are clear as the wells of paradise. 

And so he goes on, till the world grows old. 

Till his tongue has grown cautious, his heart has grown cold, 

Till the smile leaves his mouth and the ring leaves his laugh, 

And he shirks the bright headache you ask him to quaff; 

He grows formal with men, and with women polite. 

And distrustful of both when they're out of his sight; 

Then he eats for his palate, and drinks for his head, 

And loves for his pleasure,— and 'tis time he was dead ! 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION, 



A THOUGHT. 

There never was a valley without a faded flower, 
There never was a heaven without some little 
cloud ; 
The face of day may flash with light in any 
morning hour. 
But evening soon shall come with her shadow- 
woven shroud. 

There never was a river without its mists of 
gray. 
There never was a forest without its fallen 
leaf; 
And joy may walk beside us down the windings 
of our way, 
When, lo ! there sounds a footstep, and we 
meet the face of grief. 

There never was a sea-shore without its drifting 
wreck. 
There never was an ocean without its moaning 
wave ; 
And the golden gleams of glory the summer- 
sky that fleck. 
Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their 
azure-tinted grave. 

There never was a streamlet, however crystal 
clear. 
Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its 
tide ; 
Hope's brightest robes are broidered with the 
sable fringe of fear. 
And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on 
either side. 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the 
lowly plain, 
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above 
the mountain's head. 



And the highest hearts and lowest wear the 
shadow of some pain. 
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the an- 
guish'd tear is shed. 

For no eyes have there been ever without a 
weary tear, 
And those lips cannot be human which have 
never heaved a sigh ; 
For without the dreary winter there has never 
been a year. 
And the tempests hide their terrors in the 
calmest summer sky. 

The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin 
means the grave ; 
The mothers song scarce hides the De pro- 
fiindis of the priest ; 
You may cull the fairest roses any May day ever 
gave 
But they wither while you wear them ere the 
ending of your feast. 

So this dreary life is passing — and we move 
amid its maze. 
And we grope along together, half in dark- 
ness, half in light ; 
And our hearts are often burdened by the mys- 
teries of our ways. 
Which are never all in shadow and are never 
wholly bright. 

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary 
feet a guide. 
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the 
meaning and the key ; 

And a cross gleams o'er our pathway; on it 
hangs the Crucified, 

And he answers all our yearnings by the whis- 
per, " Follow Me." 

ABRAM J. RYAN. 



1 



:o8 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



THREE THOUGHTS 

Come in. Sweet Thought, come in ; 

Why linger at the door ? 
Is it because a shape of sin 

Defiled the place before ? 
"Twas but a moment there ; 

1 chased it soon away ; 
lichold. my breast is clean and I 

Come in. Sweet Thought, and stay. 
The .Aveet Thought said me " No; 

I love not such a room ; 
Where uncouth inmates come and go, 

And back, unbidden, come. 
1 rather make my cell 

From ill resort secure. 
Where love and lovely fancies dwell 

In bosoms virgin-pure." 



Oh. Pure Thought, then I said. 

Come thou, and bring with thee 
This dainty Sweetness, fancy bred. 

That flouts my house and nie. 
No peevish pride hast thou. 

Nor turnest glance of scorn 
On aught the laws of life allow 

In man of woman born. 
Said he, " No place for us 

Is here : and. be it known. 
You dwell where ways are perilous 

For them that walk alone. 
There needs the surer road. 

The fresher sprinkled floor. 
Else are we not for your abode :" — 

And turned him from the door. 



Then, in my utmost need. 

Oh, Holy Thought. I cried. 
Come thou, that cleansest will and deed, 

And in my breast abide. 
" Yea, sinner, that will I, 

And presently begin ;" 
And ere the heart that heav'd its sigh. 

The Guest Divine came in. 
As in the pest-house ward 

The prompt Physician stands, 
As in the leaguer'd castle yard 

The warden with his bands. 
He stood, and said. " My task 

Is here, and here my home ; 
And here am I. who only ask 

That I be asked to come." 



See how in formless flight 

The ranks of darkness run, 
E.xhale and perish in the light 

Stream'd from the risen sun ; 
How, but a drop infuse 

Within the turbid bowl. 
Of some eli.xir's virtuous juice. 

It straight makes clear the whole ; 
So from before his face 

The fainting phantoms went. 
And. in a clear and sunny place. 

My soul sat down content ; 
For — mark and understand 

My ailment and my cure — 
Love came and brought me, in his hand. 

The Sweet Thought and the Pure. 

SAMUEL FERGL'SIJN. 



BE PATIENT. 
Be patient, O be patient ! Put your ear against 

the earth.— 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the 

seed hath birth ; 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little 
I way, 

I Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the 
I blade stands forth to-day. 

Be patient, O be patient! for the germs of 
I mighty thought 

Must have their silent undergrowth, must under- 
I ground be wrought ; 

But as sure as ever there's a power that makes 

the grass appear. 
Our land shall smile with liberty, the blade-tinic 

shall be here. 
Be patient, O be patient ! go and watch tlu- 

wheat-ears grow. 
So imperceptibly that you can mark nor change 

nor throe. 
Day after day. day after day. till the ear is fully 

grown. 
And then again, day after day, till the ripened 

field is brown. 
Be patient. O be patient ! though yet our hopes 

are green. 
The harvest fields of Freedom shall be crowned 

with sunny sheen, 
Be ripening, be ripening ! mature your silent way. 
Till the whole land is tongued with fire on 
Freedom's harvest day I 

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 



SJP AND SWEET. 



209 



THE PRICELESS THINGS. 

Those are vulgar things we pay for, be they 
stones for crowns of kings ; 
! While the precious and the peerless are unpriced 
symbolic things. 



Common debts are scored and cancelled, weighed 

and measured out for gold ; 
But the debts from men to ages, their account is 

never told. 

Always see, the noblest nations keep their high- 
est prize unknown ; 

Chseronea's marble lion frowned above unlet- 
tered stone. 

Marathon and Balaklava — who shall mete the 

worth of these .' 
Shall we huckster with our lifeboats that defy 

the leaping seas ? 

Ah, the Greeks knew ! Come their victors hon- 
ored from the Sacred Games, 

Under arches red with roses, flushed to hear their 
shouted names ; 

See their native cities take them, breach the wall 

to make a gate ! 
What supreme reward is theirs who bring such 

honors to their State .' 

In the forum stand they proudly; take their 

prizes from the priest : 
Little wreaths of pine and parsley on their naked 

temples pressed I 

We in later days are lower? Ay ! a manful stroke 
is made, 

And we raise a purse to pay it — making manli- 
ness a trade. 

Sacrifice itself grows venal— Midas surely will 

subscribe ; 
And the shallow-souls are satisfied when worth 

accepts the bribe. 

But e'en here, amidst the markets, there are things 

they dare not prize ; 
Dollars hide their sordid faces when they meet 

anointed eyes. 

Lovers do not speak with jewels : flowers alone 

can plead for them ; 
And one fragrant memory cherished is far dearer 

than a gem. 



.Statesmen steer the nation safely ; artists pass 

the burning test, 
And their country pays them proudly — with a 

ribbon at the breast. 

When the soldier saves the battle, wi'aps the flag 

around his heart, 
\V'h(_) shall desecrate /lis honor with the values of 

the mart ? 

Krom his guns of bronze we hew a iece, and 

carve it as a cross : 
Fur the gain he gave was priceless, as unpriced 

would be the loss. 

When the poet sings the love-song, and the song 

of life and death. 
Making millions cease their weary toil and wait 

with wondering breath ; 

When he gilds the mill and mine, inspires the 

slave to rise and dare ; 
Lights with love the hopeless garret, tells the 

tyrant to beware ; 

When he steels the pang from poverty, with 

meanings new and clear. 
Reconciling pain and peace, and bringing blessed 

visions near : 

I His reward } Nor cross nor ribbon, but all others 

high above, 
They may wear their splendid symbols — he has 
earned the people's love. 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



SAD AND SWEET. 

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going. 
Crumbling away beneath our verj- feet ; 
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 
In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing. 
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat ; 
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing. 
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet ; 
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
A nearer good to cure an older ill ; [them 

And sweet are all things when we learn to prize 
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or 
denies them ! 

AUBREY DE VF.RE. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



THE BUILDERS. 

I saw the builders layinj; 

Stones on the grassy sod, 
And people praised them, saying: 

•■ A fane to the mighty God 
Shall rise aloft in glory, 

Pillars and arches wide. 
Windows stained with the story 

Of Christ the Crucified." 

I saw the broken boulders 

Lie in the waving grass. 
Flung down from bending shoulders, 

And said our lives must pass 
Ere wide Cathedral spreading 

Can span this mossy field. 
Where kine are. slowly treading. 

And flowers their honey yield. 

" Oh. dreaming builders, tarry 1 

Unchain your souls from toil. 
Leave the rock in the quarry, 

The bloom upon the soil ; 
For life is short, my brothers. 

And labor wastes its sore ; 
Why toil to gladden others 

When you shall breathe no more ? 

" Oh, come with footsteps springing. 

With empty hands and free. 
And tread the green earth singing, 

• The world was made for me I ' 
Pray amid nature's sweetness 

In pillared forest glade, 
Content with the incompleteness 

Of fanes that the Lord has made ! " 

Thj builders, never heeding, 

Kept piling stone on stone ; 
Thjir hands with toil were bleeding, — 

I went my way alone ; 
Prayed in the forest temple. 

And ate the wild bee's store ; 
My life was pure and simple. — 

What would the Lord have more? 

The years, like one long morning. 

They all llew swiftly by ; 
< )ld age, with little warning. 

Came creeping softly nigh. 
Now (be we all forgiven !) 

I longed to see. alar. ! 
What the builders had raised to heaven 

Instead of the tender grass. 



I heard a sweet bell ringing 

Over the worid so wide. 
I heard the sound of singing 

Across the even-tide ; 
What sight my soul bewilders 

Beneath the sunset's glow? 
The fane that the dreaming builders 

Were building long ago ! 

"Tis not the sculptured portal. 

Or windows jewelled wide. 
With joys of the life immortal. 

And woes of Him who died. 
That fill my soul with wonder. 

And drain my heart of tears. 
And ask with voice of thunder, 

" Where are thy wasted years ? " 

But a thousand thousand creatures 

Kneel down where grew the sod, 
And hear with glowing features 

The words that breathe of Ood. 
Alone and empty-handed. 

1 wait by the open door ; 
Such work hath the Lord commanded. 

And I can work — no more ! 

The builders, never heeding. 

They lie and take their rest. 
And hands no longer bleeding 

Are folded on each breast. — 
The grass waves o'er them sleeping. 

And flowerets red and white, 
Where I kneel above them weeping. 

And whisper. " You were right." 

ROS.V MULHOLLAND. 



THE RAINBOW'S TREASURE. 

Where the foot of the rainbow meets the field. 

And the grass resplendent grov\-s, 
The earth will a precious treasure yield. 
I So the olden story goes. 
I In a crystal cup are the diamonds piled 
j For him who can swiftly chase 
j Over torrent and desert and precipice wild. 
To the rainbow's wandering base. 

I There were two in the field at work, one day, 
j Two brothers who blithely sung. 
When across their valley's deep-winding way 
I The glorious arch was flung ! 



THE SAGE—THE POET— THE SAINT. 



And one saw naught but a sign of raiti, 
And feared for his sheaves unbound ; 

And one is away, over mountain and plain. 
Till the mystical treasure is found ! 

Through forest and stream, in a blissful dream, 

The rainbow lured him on ; 
With a siren's guile it loitered awhile. 

Then leagues away was gone. 
Over brake and brier he followed fleet ; 

The people scoffed as he passed ; 
But in thirst and heat, and with wounded feet. 

He nears the prize at last. 

It is closer and closer — he wins the race — 

One strain for the goal in sight : 
Its radiance falls on his yearning face — 

The blended colors unite ! 
He laves his brow in the iris beam — 

He reaches — Ah woe ! the sound 
From the misty gulf where he ends his dream, 

And the crystal cup is found ! 

'Tis the old. old story ; one man will read 

His lesson of toil in the sky ; 
While another is blind to the present need, 

But sees with the spirit's eye. 
You may grind their souls in the self same mill. 

You may bind them heart and brow ; 
But the poet will follow the rainbow still, 

And his brother will follow the plough. 

JOHN' BOVLE O'REILLY. 



THE SAGE-THE POET-THE SAINT. 

They stand with their hands outstretched in love 
of a far-off shore — 

The glow of evening around them, and a burn- 
ing light before ; — 

They gaze where the sun is setting, and tlie 
ocean waves are rolled. 

And their hearts are fain to follow that pathway 
of reddening gold. 

They stand and gaze till their faces have caught \ The Poet— his eyes are burning, his heart is a 

their reflected glow. heart of fire ; 

And a mystic brightness is shed o'er the things His hands have fashioned the world by the light 

of the earth below, of his own desire : 

When they look away from the Heaven ; and He will not tarry for knowledge,— too quickly 

they cannot see aright. | the moments flee,— 

For it may be their eyes are dazzled by the flood i And his is the passionate longing of the heart, 

of immortal light. j that sees, to see. 



In their hearts there is bitter yearning — a thirst 

that is never slaked — 
A love that can have no dying, — no creature of 

Death awaked. 
And these have the grace to tread where none 

but their feet have trod ; 
And could they but see their goal, they would 

know that their goal is God. 



One end to their endless longing — one aim amid 

all their strife, 
But the end is itself the way. and the aim is the 

whole of life : 
The Sage, the Poet, the Saint — we have given to 

each his name. 
But if they have all one goal, then all are at last 

the same. 



For we speak, and we needs must speak, of 

mind and heart and soul, 
But Spirit is ever one and an undivided whole : 
We look but a little way — the part can see but 

a part — 
And only Thyself— O God !— canst see Thyself 

as Thou art. 

The Sage — ah ! we know a little of our little 

things below, — 
riut his is the restless striving of the mind, that 

knows, to know. 
He asks what is } and in asking his hands have 

broken the bond 
Of what seems — and he presses on to the one I 

Am beyond. 

His God is the God of Truth. Eternal and far 

and dim. 
And he knows not that in his striving God has 

come near to him ; 
He calls us, but who may follow — for whose are 

the eyes to view 
The blinding beams of the sun in his heaven of 

endless blue. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



His God is the God of Beauty.— so near, could 

he only find,— 
He sees where no others see, yet even his eyes 

are blind : 
We praise him. and start to follow, but the light 

of the heart has fled. 
And vainly we look around us. for the world lies 

dark and dead. 

But the Saint— his eyes are ever upturned to the 
blue above. 

And his is the endless yearning of the .soul, that 
loves, to love : 

He looks at the clear deep Heaven, whose cloud- 
less depths may tell 

Of the pure and selfless Spirit where God loves 
best to dwell. 

His Gotl is the God of Love — so far. yei so deep 

within, — 
Whom a life of longing and loving and losing self 

may win : 
He leads us, and all would follow — but we linger 

from day to day. 
And think there is time for starting, and so life 

glides away. 



EU.M<JNU 



HOL.MliS. 



IF THAT WERE TRUE. 

'Tis long ago, — we have toiled and traded. 

Have lost and frettetl. have gained and grieved 
Since last the light of that fond faith faded ; 

But friends — in its day — what we believed ! 
The poets' dreams, and the peasants' stories — 

Oh. never will time that trust renew ! 
Yet they were old on the earth before us. 

And lovely tales — had they been true ! 

Some spake of homes in the greenwood hidden. 

Where age was fearless, and youth was free- 
Where none at life's board seemed guests un- 
bidden. 

But men had years like the forest tree : 
Goodly and fair, and full of summer. 

As lives went by when the world was new. 
Ere ever the angel steps passed from her. — 

Oh. dreamers and bards, if that were true ! 

Some told us of a stainless standard. 

Of hearts that only in death grew cold. 
Whose march was ever in freedom's vanguard. 

And not to be stayed by steel or gold. 



The world to their very graves was debtor,— 
The tears of her love fell there like dew ; 

But there had been neither slave nor fetter 
This day in her realms had that been true ! 

Our hope grew strong as the giant-slayer. 

They told that life was an honest game. 
Where fortune favored the fairest player. 

And only the false found loss and blame. 
That men were honored for gifts and graces, 

And not for the prizes folly drew ; 
But there would be many a change of places 

In hovel and hall, if that were true ! 

Some said to our silent souls. What fear ye .' 

And talked of a love not based on clay— 
Of faith that would neither wane nor weary. 

With all the dust of the pilgrim's day : 
They said that fortune and time were changers. 

But not by their tides such friendships grew ; 
Oh. we had never been trustless strangers 

Among our people, if that were true ! 

And yet, since the fairy time hath perished. 

With all its freshness, from hills and hearts. 
The last of its love, so vainly cherished. 

Is not for these days of schools and marts. 
Up. up ! for the heavens still circle o'er us ; 

There's wealth to win and there's work to do ; 
There's a sky above and a grave before us — 

And. brothers, beyond them all is true ! 

KK.\NCES BKOWX. 



BOOKS.-LET THERE BE LIGHT. 

Light to the darkened mind 
Bear, like the sun. the world s wide circle round. 
Bright messengers that speak without a sound ; 

Light on the spirit blind 
Shall fall where'er ye pass ; your living ray 
Shall change the night of ages into day ; — 

God speed ye on your way. 

In closet and in hall 
Too long alone your message hath been spoken. 
The spell of gold that bound ye there is broken ; 

Go forth and shine on all. 
The world's inheritance, the legacy * 

Bequeathed by genius to the race are ye ; 

Be like the sunlight, free. 



BLINDNESS. 



■13 



A mighty power ye wield ; 
Ye wake grim centuries from their deep repose, 
And bid their hoarded treasuries unclose, 

The spoils of time to yield. 
Ye hold the gift of immortality ; 
Bard, sage, and seer, whose fame shall never die, 

Live thro' your ministry. 

Noiseless upon your path. 
Freighted with lore, romance, and song, ye speed, 
Moving the world, in custom and in creed. 

Waking its love or wrath ; 
Tyrants, that blanch not on the battle-plain. 
Quail at your silent coming, and in vain 

Would bind the riven chain. 

Shrines that embalm great souls, [hold. 

Where yet the illustrious dead high converse 
As gods spake through their oracles of old, 

Upon your mystic scrolls. 
There lives a spell to guide our destiny, — 
The fire by night, the pillared cloud by day. 

Upon our upward way. 

ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 



BLINDNESS.' 



Farewell, farewell, spice-islands of my childhood, 

Where I have lingered long ! 
Farewell the glories of the vale and wildwood. 

The laughter and the song ! 
Farewell the sunny pleasures you inherit — 

For I am drifting forth ; 
My helm deserted by my Guardian Spirit, 

My prow unto the North ! 

The golden shores of sunshine round me spread- 
Refuse a boon of light ; [ing. 

And fast my shattered soul is deathward head- 
Wrecked on a sea of night ! . [ing. 

There is no angry tempest flapping sunward 
Its black wings through the air ; 

The ruin, in a calm, is hurried onward 
Through channels of despair. 

Around me is a darkness omnipresent 

With boundless horror grim, 
Descending from the zenith, ever crescent. 

To the horizon's rim ; 



The golden stars, all charred and blackened by it. 

Are swept out one by one ; 
My world is left, as if a Joshua's fiat — 

A moonless Ajalon ! 

How long, O Lord ! I cry, in bitter anguish. 

Must I be doomed, alone, [guish. 

A chained and blinded Samson — thus to lan- 

In e.xile from the sun .' 
Or must I hope for evermore surrender, 

And turn my eyes on high. 
To find, instead of brave and azure splendor, 

A black cloud on the sky ? 

Come nearer to me. Soother of my sorrow. 

And place your hand in mine ; 
That my o'er-darkened soul shall, haply, borrow 

A little light from thine : 
That, bearing all which fortune has commanded 

Until my fortunes end. 
The Crusoe-land on which I may be stranded 

Shall have at least a friend ! 

And read aloud some wisdom-given volume — 

The work of golden hours — 
In which the stately thoughts rise like a column 

Crowned with Corinthian flowers — 
In which the epic Greek moves, solemn sounding, 

With he.xametric sweep ; 
And every line has some fine pulses, bounding 

With passion grand and deep I 

Or read to me once more that burning ballad 

Compact of passionate fire. [pallid. 

Which bright-eyed Sappho, fond, and fierce, and 

Swept from her sounding lyre — 
That larger utterance of a glorious woman 

The Palmyrene preserved. 
To show how like a frantic god's, the human 

Spirit is subtly nerved I 

Or rather read how Aja.x prayed, when round him 

Were corpses cold and stark. 
And plotting deities had closely bound him 

In vapors dim and dark — 
Read how he prayed to Jove with eager passion 

To sweep away the night — 
That he might meet his fate in hero fashion, 

And perish in the light ! 

Since then a greater hero fought and perished. 

Within a silent room ; 
And, as our Goethe felt that all he cherished 

Was sinking into gloom — 



/OEM^ UJ- RLl t.l. 



As o'er his features stole the fatal pallor. 

He looked above and cried— 
In echo of that prayer of Grecian valor— 

" More light, O Lord !" — and died ! 

That cry is mine, my friend ! but uttered vainly — 

The ear of Hcav'n is deaf ! 
And I may persevere in prayer, insanely, 

And win no true relief ! 
Close up the books, for grim and ghastly darkness 

Has settled over all— 
My soul is wrapped for evermore in starkness. 

Within this funeral pall ! 

Farewell, farewell, spice-islands of my childhood. 

Where I have lingered long ! 
Farewell the glories of the vale and wildwood. 

The laughter and the song ! 
Farewell the sunny pleasures you inherit — 

For I am drifting forth ; 
My helm deserted by my Guardian Spirit, 

My prow unto the North ! 

JOSEPH BRENAN. 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A man there came, whence none could tell. 
Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 
And tested all things in the land 

By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
Purple nor ermine did he spare. 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heir-loom jewels prized so much. 

Were many changed to chips and clods, 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath his touch. 

Then angrily the people cried. 

" The loss outweighs the profit far ; 

Our goods suffice us as they are ; 
We will not have them tried." 

And since they could not so avail 
To check his unrelenting quest. 
They seized him. saying — " Let him test 

How real is our jail ! " 

But, though they slew him with the sword. 
And in a fire his touchstone burn'd. 
Its doings could not be o'erturn"d. 

Its undoings restored. 



And when, to stop all future harm, 

They strew'd its ashes on the breeze ; 
They little guessed each grain of these 

Conveyed the fwrfect charm. 

WILLIAM ALLI.VGHAM. 



IMPLICIT FAITH. 



Of all great Nature's tones that sweep 
Earth's resonant bosom, far or near. 

Low-breathed or loudest, shrill or deep. 
Few, few are grasp'd by mortal ear. 



Ten octaves close our scale of sound ; 

Its myriad grades, distinct or twined, 
Transcend our hearing's petty bound. 

To us as«colors to the blind. 



In sound's unmeasured empire thus 
The heights, the depths alike we miss : 

Ah, but in iiu-asitrcU sound, to us 
A compensating spell there is ! 

In holy music's golden speech 
Remotest notes to notes respond : 

Each octave is a world ; yet each 
Vibrates to worlds its own beyond. 



Our narrow'pale the vast resumes; 

Our sea-shell whispers of the sea : 
Echoes are ours of angel plumes 

That winnow for infinity ! 

Clasp thou of Truth the central core ! 

Hold fast that center's central sense ! 
An atom there shall fill thee more 

Than realms on Truth's circumference. 

That cradled Saviour, mute and small. 
Was God — is God while worlds endure. 

Who holds truth truly holds it all 
In essence, or in miniature. 

Know that thou know'st ! He knowcth much 
Who knows not many things ; and he 

Knows most whose knowledge hath a touch 
Of God's divine simplicity. 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



t LA V SERMON. 



THE COURSE OF EMPIRE. 

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in 
America. 

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime 

Barren of every glorious theme, 
In distant lands now waits a better time, 

Producing subjects worthy fame ; 

In happy climes, when from the genial sun 
And virgin earth such scenes ensue, 

The force of art by nature seems outdone. 
And fancied beauties by the true ; 

In happy climes, the seat of innocence. 
Where nature guides and virtue rules. 

Where men shall not impose for truth and sense 
The pedantry of courts and schools. 

There shall be sung another golden age. 

The rise of empires and of arts. 
The good and great uprising epic rage, 

The wisest heads and noblest hearts. 



Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ; 

Such as she bred when fresh and young, 
When heavenly flame did animate her clay. 

By future poets shall be sung. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 

Time's noblest offspring is the last. 

GEORGE BERKELEY. 



A LAY SERMON. 



Brother, do you love your brother ? 

Brother, are you all you seem } 
Do you live for more than living } 

Has your Life a law, and scheme .'' 
Are you prompt to bear its duties. 

As a bra\e man may beseem ? 

Brother, shun the mist exhaling 
From the fen of pride and doubt. 

Neither seek the house of bondage 
Walling straitened souls about ; — 

Bats ! who, from their narrow spy-hole 
Cannot see a world without. 



Anchor in no stagnant shallow — 
Trust the wide and woundrous sea. 

Where the tides are fresh forever. 
And the mighty currents free ; 

There, perchance, O I young Columbus, 
Your New World of truth may be. 

Favor will not make deserving — 
(Can the sunshine brighten clay?) 

Slowly must it grow to blossom. 
Fed by labor and delay, 

And the fairest bud of promise 
Bears the taint of quick decay. 

You must strive for better guerdons ; 

Strive to be the thing you'd seem ; 
Be the thing that God hath made you, 

Channel for no borrowed stream ; 
He hath lent you mind and conscience ; 

See you travel in their beam I 

See you scale life's misty highlands 

By this light of living truth ! 
And with bosom braced for labor. 

Breast them in your manly youth ; 
So when age and care have found you, 

Shall your downward path be smooth. 

Fear not on that rugged highway 
Life may want its lawful zest ; 

Sunny glens are in the mountain. 
Where the weary feet may rest. 

Cooled in streams that gush forever 
From a loving mother's breast. 

" Simple heart and simple pleasures," 
So they write life's golden rule; 

Honor won by supple baseness. 
State that crowns a cankered fool, 

Gleam as gleam the gold and purple 
On a hot and rancid pool. 

Wear no show of wit or science. 

But the gems you've won and weighed : 

Thefts, like ivy on a ruin. 

Make the rifts they seem to shade : 

Are you not a thief and beggar 
In the rarest spoils arrayed ? 

Shadows deck a sunny landscape. 
Making brighter all the bright ; 

So, my brother, care and danger 
On a loving nature light, 

Bringing all its latent beauties 
Out upon the common sight. 



2l6 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Love the things that God created. 

^fake your brother's need your care ; 
Scorn and hate repel (.od's blessings, 

But where love is. they are there ; 
As the moonbeams light the waters. 

Leasing rock and sand-bank bare. 

Thus, my brother, grow and flourish. 

Fearing none and loving all ; 
For the true man needs no patron. 

He shall climb and never crawl ; 
Two things fashion their own channel— 

The strong man and the waterfall. 

CHARLES UAVAN DUFFY. 



CASTE AND CREED. 

Come, man ! your hand, a brother sings, 

Or silken be't or sergy ; 
The wars of nations leave to kings. 

And those of creeds to clergy ; 
And taste with us that grand sublime 

Which zests your ever)' other. 
By holding man, whate'er his clime. 

His caste, or creed, a hrother ! 
May all who'd show opposing views. 

Their harvests find tremendous. 
While, oh, from such, and from their dues. 

The Lord of love defend us. 

What, tho' the waves should walk the air, 

Betwixt each earthly acre ; 
What, though each hill a differing prayr 

Should offer to its Maker ; — 
Do these make men the less akin, 

Or plead for hate and slaughter ? 
If so, whate'er the weight of sin. 

It lies with hills and water. 
Ah. if, indeed, ye hold a creed 

That conscience calls a high one, 
Then hold it for your spirit's need. 

And not a scourge for my one ! 

We've fair, we've foul in every clime, 

In every creed and calling ; 
We've men to sport their chaff sublime 

O'er every feather's falling ; 
We've men of straw, of stick, of stone. 

We've soul whose flavor such is 
If, loathing virtue — blood and bone. 

Adores x!a& ghost on crutches! 



Ah, virtue, ever in our throats. 
Much wear and tear attend thee ! 

Tor, wear thou wilt, as wear our coats. 
But, faith, 'tis worse to mend thee ! 

Still wherefore make the wordy moan 

O'er ills that mayn't be mended. 
Where will's so weak that thousands groan 

In guilt they ne'er intended .' 
Our own poor mite of righteous ways 

Let's hold from frost and ferment. 
But not for crowds or stated days. 

Like Save-all's Sabbath garment ! 
Let's clear our light to show the right. 

To aid in its e.\tending ; 
And, loathe the bile would green the sight 

O'er any Worth's ;iscending ! 

My neighbor's weal is weal to me, 

If reared not on my ruin ; 
And though for what I feel or be, 

He'd care no more than Bruin, 
I'd say, enjoy your silken share, — 

Yea, as I hope for heaven ; 
For Coin and Care a wedded pair 

Are six times out of seven ! 
Miss Fortune trips a painted porch. 

Too oft in slippery sandal. 
Where coldlicr glares her gilded torch 

Than Misery's farthing candle ! 

Then creeds and classes, to-or-fro, 

They smile with each, my brother I 
We must have sun, and shade, and snow, — 

They'll come to aid each other ! 
Let matter, too, enjoy its grades 

Nor deem it an unsound thing, — 
'Twere just as wise to measure blades 

Because the world's a round thing. 
We must have low, we must have high. 

And many a niche between them ; 
The height may be a tinselled lie— 

The men are what's within them I 

And mark me. men, a day shall dawn 

When neither serge nor ermine. 
Nor clime nor class, shall make the man. 

Nor creed nor worth determine ! 
'Twill come, 'twill come, and come to stand- 

The cast of Love-i.h:ht Stature. 
When love alone, where'er your land. 

Shall tell the who and -uiliat you're ! 



.STAN'S MISSION. 



God send it soon, in peace — in might, ' 
God guide its rear and vanguard ; 

Hurrah for Love ! for Light ! for Right! 
The mind, and moral standard ! 

Then, brother man, if ail agreed. 

Though live we may'nt to see such, 
Let's tack this trifle to our creed. 

And chant a long " So be such ! " 
All knavish souls, or high or low. 

May conscience-cuffs distress them ; 
But honest hearts, where'er they grow. 

The King of Kingdoms bless them ! 
May all who hold a sicklier thought. 

Hold bitters too, to mend it; 
But bless, O Heaven, the better taught ! — 

Their teaching. Lord defend it ! 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



OUR KIND OF A MAN. 

The kind of a man for you and me ! 

He faces the world unflinchingly, 

And smites as long as the wrong resists. 

With a knuckled faith and force like-tists ; 

He lives the life he is preaching of, 

And loves where most is the need of love ; 

His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, [tears; 

And his face sublime through the blind man's 

The light shines out where the clouds were dim. 

And the widow's prayer goes up for him ; 

The latch is clicked at the hovel door, 

And the sick man sees the sun once more, 

And out o'er the barren field he sees 

Springing blossoms and waving trees. 

Feeling, as only the dying may, 

That God's own servant has come that way. 

Smoothing the path as it still winds on [gone. 

Through the golden gate where his loved have 

The kind of a man for me and you. 
However little of worth we do : 
He credits full, and abides in trust 
That time will teach us how more is just. 
He walks abroad and he meets all kinds 
Of querulous and uneasy minds. 
And, sympathizing, he shares the pain 
Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain. 
And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand. 
We are surely coming to understand ! 
He looks on sin with pitying eyes — 
E'en as the Lord, since Paradise- 



Else, should we read, though our sins should glow 
As scarlet, they should be white as snow ! 
And feeling still, with a grief half glad 
That the bad are as good as the good are bad, 
He strikes straight out for the Right — and he 
Is the kind of a man for you and nie ! 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 



MAN'S MISSION. 

Human lives are silent teaching — 

Be they earnest, mild, and true — 
Noble deeds are noblest preaching 

From the consecrated few. 
Poet-Priests their anthems singing, 
Hero-swoids on corselet ringing. 

When Truth's banner is unfurled ; 
Youthful preachers, genius-gifted. 
Pouring forth their souls uplifted. 

Till their preaching stirs the world. 

Each must work as God has given 

Hero hand or poet soul — 
Work is duty while we live in 

This weird world of sin and dole. 
Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling. 
Lift their white hands up, appealing 

To the throne of Heaven's King — 
Stronger natures, culminating. 
In great actions incarnating 

What another can but sing. 

Pure and meek-eyed as an angel. 

We must strive — must agonize ; 
We must preach the saint's evangel 

Ere we claim the saintly prize — 
Work for all — for work is holy — 
We fulfill our mission solely 

When, like Heaven's arch above. 
Blend our souls in one emblazon, 
And the social diapason 

Sounds the perfect chord of love. 

Life is combat, life is striving. 

Such our destiny below — 
Like a scythed chariot driving 

Through an onward pressing foe. 
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial 
Will but teach us self-denial ; 

Like the alchemists of old, 
Pass the ore through cleansing fire 
If our spirits would aspire 

To be God's refined gold. 



2l8 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



We are struggling in the morning 

With the spirit of the night. 
But we trample on its scorning — 

Lo ! the eastern sky is bright. 
We must watch. The day is breaking ; 
Soon, like Memnon's statue waking 

With the sunrise into sound. 
We shall raise our voice to Heaven, 
Chant a hymn for conquest given, 

Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. 

We must bend our thoughts to earnest, 

Would we strike the idols down ; 
With a purpose of the sternest 

Take the Cross, and wait the Crown. 
Sufferings human life can hallow. 
Sufferings lead to Cod's \'alhalla ; — 

Meekly bear, but nobly try. 
Like a man with soft tears flowing. 
Like a God with conquest glowing, 

So to love, and work, and die! 

L.\DY WILDE. 



THE MISSIONER. 

He stood upon the mountains bare. 
The sunlight pierced the cold blue air; 
Kar off a lonely waterfall 
Crashed through a roughened granite wall, 
Up from the cliff the eagle rose 
Over a land of blackest woes. 
And as the watcher gazeth down 
Through the dim haze of field and town 
He crieth, with cheek of burning hue, 
■• Work ! there lies work for a man to do. 

•• Hearts beat there, to blcnil and mould. 
Sifting the clay from the precious gold, 
Girding the brave for the cause of right. 
To wage against wrong a gallant fight ; 
To lift the cloud from the darken'd brain 
And light it up with God's fire again, 
Unfurling the flag of the good and true — 
This is the work for a man to do." 

And he went forth — a Missioner, 
Down from that mountain, cold and bare, 
With a heart as fresh as a holy well. 
And a tongue as sweet as a honey cell. 
Round him a nation's strength and pride, 
.Ml bent before that resistless tide — 
The seed was sown and it quickly grew — 
That was the work which a man could do. 



But ere the reaping th' Evangelist 
P'rora the face of the land he loved was missed 
He trod the path of the yellow stars. 
Free from the earth and its slimy wars — 
Free ! yet his spirit dwelt with those 
Who waged the strife with freedom's foes. 
And his voice was heard 'mid the good and tnu . 
" I've shown ye the work for men to do." 

JOH.\ KEEr.AN CASHV. 



THE MAN OF WISDOM. 

The man that's wise to know all things aspires. 
But first the knowledge of himself desires ; 
How far the compass of his strength can go. 
But his own weakness studies most to know. 

He reasons more by practice than by rule ; 
His logic's learned in obser\ation's school ; 
Taught by experience truly to reflect. 
Can first himself and then his friends direct ; 
He ne'er suspends but in a doubtful case. 
Ne'er doubts where resolution should take place ; 
Of every needful thing just care does take, 
But's most concerned for his immortal stake ; 
Without that scope counts fruitless each cd- 

deavor. 
Nor would be happy once if not forever. 

Himself best knowing, best himself can trust ; 
Others, so far as he has proved them just : 
The world may him deceive, but ne'er abuse. 
Who trusts no more than he can bear to lose. 
While close retirement is to him a screen. 
Himself looks thro,' but sees the world unseen. 
Yet shows, when forced the daylight to abide. 
Prudence, not affectation, made him hide ; 
Does never causeless from his purpose range ; 
When reason calls he never fears to change. 
From everything instruction he can draw. 
And from him each instruction i . a law. 

To ages past his nimble thoughts can climb ; 
In things to come prevent the speed of time ; 
Unborn events by past events foretell. 
And in conjecture be prophetical. 



Hi 



he ne'er suffers to rebel. 



Or h.astens their first mutiny to quell; 
By honor's light, in all his projects sails, 
.\n(l boards a second when a former fails , 
Makes disappointment but improve his skill, 
! And fetches strength fro:n v.hct succeeded ill. 



SWEETNESS. 



219 



Some wrongs he sees not, but with silent art 
Dissembles wounds too powerful foes impart ; 
Loves to owe less in good turns than he may ; 
For bad, would be in debt and never pay : 
Censures unjust or just alike to him : 
Those he deserves not, these he can contemn ; 
Slights scandal, lays no violent hands on blame. 
Gives slander scope till it expires with shame. 
His joys no fears, his hopes know no despairs ; 
Safe in the circle of his own affairs, 
From others' strife he timely does retire. 
Nor thrusts his hand into a needless fire ; 
He best the purchase of his wit can tell, 
And how to value, keep and use it well ; 
Himself his own best lawyer, and his skill 
His readiest and most faithful oracle. 

NAHUM TATE. 



WILL THEY RETURN ? 

I heard the naked fields and leafless woods make 
For the sweet spring, [moan 

For hawthorn bloom and primrose breath, and 
wild bee's drone. 
And flash of butterflies on elfin wing. 

j I heard the silver sands in starlight chill make 
For the bright sea, [moan 

Whose feet with mocking fugues had left them 
parched and lone. 
And still in sapphire ripples seemed to flee. 

I I heard the widowed skies, all sable-robed make 
For the glad sun, [moan 

For all their depths of blue, with radiant gold- 
veins sown, 
And rainbow-woofs from melting cloud-flakes 
spun. 

I heard a hero's heart at every throb make moan 

For hopes once bright ; 
For dreams of glory waned like witch-fires from 
their throne. 
For daylight's rising cressets quenched in 
deadly night. 

Spring shall come back to you, sere woods and 
wind-swept plains ! 
The rose shall blush ; 
The throstle and the nightingale shall raise their 
strains, 
And thousand brooklets with sweet babble 
gush. 



[ Bleak sands, ye soon shall feel the ocean's soft 
Like mother's love ; [caress, 

O widowed skies, your spouse shall come again 
to bless 
With tingent kisses all below.— above ; 

But thou, O heart, beat on and make thy cease- 
Ask not for rest ! [less moan. 
1 When the slain eagle soars, shall freedom's hopes 
once flown. 
Return to their cold nest ! 

FANNY PARNELL. 



ACCORDANCE. 

He who with bold and skilful hand sweeps o'er 
The organ-keys of some cathedral pile. 
Flooding with music vault and nave and aisle. 
Though on his ear falls but a thundrous roar ; 
In the composer's lofty motive free. 
Knows well that all that temple, vast and dim. 
Thrills to its base with anthem, psalm and hymn. 
True to the changeless laws of harmony. 
So he who on these changing chords of life 
With firm, sweet touch plays the Great Master's 
Of truth and love, and duty, evermore, [score 
Knows, too, that far beyond this roar and strife. 
Though he may never hear, in the true time, 
These notes must all accord in symphonies 
sublime. 

ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 



SWEETNESS. 



The honey-bee that wanders all day long 
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, 
To gather in his fragrant winter store. 
Humming in calm content his quiet song. 
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, 
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, — 
But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips 
The single drop of sweetness closely prest 
Within the poison chalice. Thus if we 
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet 
In all the varied human flowers we meet 
In the wide garden of humanity. 
And, like the bee, if home the spoils we bear. 
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there. 

ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



THE SPINNER. 



The spinner twisted her slender thread 

, As she sat and spun : 
" The earth and the heavens are mine." she said, 

" And the mcwn and sun ; 
Into my web the sunlight goes, 

And the breath of May.— 
And the crimson life of the new-blown rose. 

That was born to-day." 

The spinner sang in that hush of noon, 

And her song was low : — 
•' Oh morning, you pass away too soon. 

You are swift to go; 
My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup 

With its hopes and fears, — 
Love, come and drink its sweetness up 

Ere it turn to tears ! " 

The spinner looked at the falling sun : 

" Is it time to rest .' 
My hands are weary, my work is done, 

I have wrought my best ; — 
I have spun and woven with patient eyes. 

And with fingers fleet ; 
Lo ! where the toil of a lifetime lies, 

In a winding sheet ! " 

MAKV AINGE DE VERE. 



Have done with fruitless yearning — 
' Know ye not there's no returning ? 

: The wrathful sea's between ye and your far 
I fatherland. 

The worst it threatens, brave ye ! 
Now from yourselves I save ye, 
Lo, the ships that bore ye hither ablaze up 
the strand I 



IN A STRANGE LAND. 



Behold your quest is ended. 
And the new land, strange and splendid. 
No longer luring from afar, is firm beneath your [ 
tread ; 
And the way is free before ye, | 

The skies unclouded o'er ye. 
And the past is dusk and darkness, and the dead I 
have earthed their dead. 

Raise yoiir Cross and raise your Altar — 
Why pale ye thus and falter ? 
Are ye men or love-lorn maidens ? — ye late were 
stern and brave. 
What's worth a strong man's weeping? 
The new land hath in keeping 
The most the old could give ye— a death-dart 
and a grave. 



KAIHERINE E. CONW. 



MORN. 

Morn is the time to wake- 

The eyelids to unclose— 
Spring from the arms of Sleep, and break 

The fetters of repose ; 
Walk at the dewy dawn abroad, 
And hold sweet fellowship with God. 

Morn is the time to pray : 

How lovely and how meet 
To send our earliest thoughts away 

Up to the mercy seat ! 
Embassadors, for us to claim 
A blessing in our Master's name. 

Morn is the time to sing : 

How lovely 'tis to hear 
The mingling notes of Nature ring 

In the delighted ear ! 
And with that swelling anthem raise 
The soul's fresh matin song of praise I 

Morn is the time to sow 

The seeds of heavenly truth. 
While balmy breezes softly blow 

Upon the soil of youth ; 
And look to thee, nor look in vain, 
O God, for sunshine and for rain. 

Mom is the time to love : 

As tendrils of the vine, 
The young affections fondly rove, 

And seek them where to twine. 
Around thyself, in thine embrace. 
Lord, let them find their resting place ! 

Morn is the time to shine. 

When skies are clear and blue, — 
Reflect the rays of light divine 

As morning dew-drops do : 
Like early stars, be early bright. 
And melt away like them in light. 



\tlFE. 



Mom is the time to weep 

O'er morning's hours misspent : 

Alas ! how oft from peaceful sleep, 
On folly madly bent, 

We've left the straight and narrow road, 

And wandered from our guardian, God ! 

Morn is the time to think. 

While thoughts are fresh and free. 

Of life just balanced on the brink 
Of dark eternity ! 

And ask our souls if they are meet 

To stand before the judgment seat. 

Morn is the time to die. 

Just at the dawn of day, — 
When stars are fading in the sky. 

To fade like them away : 
But lost in light more brilliant far 
Than ever r^erged the morning star. 

Morn is the time to rise. 

The resurrection morn, — 
Upspringing to the glorious skies. 

On new-found pinions borne, 
To meet the Saviour's smile divine : — 
Be such ecstatic rising mine ! 

JANE L. GRAY. 



THE PASSING DAYS. 

How swift and noiseless, on viewless pinions, 
The sunny hours of our life flit past ; 

The priceless moments drift by us idly 
A5 falling leaves in the autumn blast. 

We turn aside from life's toils and duties 
To mourn the glad hours forever gone ; 

We let the present glide by unheeded. 
And sigh for days that may never dawn. 

We vainly dream of some bright ideal. 
Some Spirit-Eden of light and bloom. 

To draw the soul from the boundless real 
That must await it beyond the tomb. 

He from, whose breath leap the passing ages. 
Who bids them onward forever roll, 

Alone can answer the spirit-cravings 
That ever spring in the deathless soul. 

Oh, may we grasp at the fleeting moments, 
1 And make each day, as He bids it come, 
I A golden round in life's upward ladder. 
To lift our footsteps the nearer home. 



Life here should be a harmonious poem. 
Whose breathing numbers could never die — 

A song of praise, on whose strains melodious 
The soul might soar to its home on high. 

If no harsh note mars its mellow music, 
No jarring discord of hate or wrong 

Disturbs the flow of the magic numbers 

That sweetly blend in that deathless song, — 

Then, when our life-hymn at last is finished. 
When sleeps the clay in its kindred sod. 

Rejoicing angels shall chant its anthem 
Before the throne of the Author — God. 

.MARY A. MciMULLIN. 



THE SIRENS 



Ulysses, sailing past the Sirens' isle, [fast 

Sealed first his comrades' ears, then bade them 
Bind him with many a fetter to the mast. 
Lest those sweet voices should their soul beguile. 
And to their ruin flatter them, the while 

j Their homeward bark was swiftly sailing past .' 
And thus the peril they behind them cast, 
Tho' chased by those weird voices many a mile. 

i But yet a nobler cunning Orpheus used ; 
No fetter he put on, nor stopped his ear; 

\ But ever, as he passed, sang high and clear. 
The blisses of the gods, their holy joys. 
And with diviner melody confused 
And marred earth's sweetest music to a noise. 

RICHARD CHENKVIX TRENCH. 



LIFE. 

Life, believe, is not a dream. 

So dark as sages say ; 
Oft a little morning rain 

Foretells a pleasant day; 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom. 

But these are transient all ; 
If the shower will make the roses bloc 
Oh, why lament its fall ? 
Rapidly, merrily, 
Life's sunny hours flit by ; 

Gratefully, cheerfully, 
Enjoy them as they fly. 



POEMS OF REJECTION. 



What though Death at times steps in 

And calls our best away ? 
What though Sorrow seems to win 

Oer Hope a hea\7 sway ? 
Yet Hope again elastic springs, 

Unconquered, though she fell ; 
Still buoyant are her golden wings, 
Still strong to bear us well. 
Manfully, fearlessly, 
The day of trial bear ; 

For gloriously, victoriously, 
Can courage quell despair. 

CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 



VESUVIUS. 



I. 

As when unto a mother, having chid 
Her child in anger, there have straight ensued 
Repentings for her quick and angry mood. 
Till she would fain see all its traces hid 
Quite out of sight— even so has Nature bid 
Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has 

strewed, 
To blossom, and called up the taller wood 
To cover what she ruined and undid. 
Oh ! and her mood of anger did not last 
More than an instant, but her work of peace, 
Restoring and repairing, comforting 
The earth, her stricken child, will never cease ; 
For that was her strange work, and quickly past. 
To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring. 



H. 
That her destroying fury was with noise 
And sudden uproar ; but far otherwise. 
With silent and with secret mysteries. 
Her skill of renovation she employs : 
For Nature, only loud when she destroys. 
Is silent when she fashions ; she will crowd 
The work of her destruction, transient, loud, 
Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. 
Yea, every power that fashions and upholds 
Works silently,— all things, whose life is sure 
Their life is calm ; silent the light that moulds 
And colors all things ; and without debate 
The stars, which are for ever to endure, (state. 
Assume their thrones and their unquestioned 

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 



GIVET, 



" O Peregrine I 
What saw you in (iivet ?" 

•■ O friend of mine ! 
An arm so graceful and so fair. 
That flashed a moment in the air, 
From out a mansard window high 
Above the slow-awaking street. 
The misty morning breeze to try. 
The misty morning light to greet. 
No fairer reached the first fair arm 
Into the boughs in Paradise, 
And through the break let in the harm 
Of light on two unguarded eyes. 
Than this one in Givet, 
O friend of mine !" 



" O Peregrine ! 
What saw you in Givet ?" 

•• O friend of mine ! 
Three hundred white caps bobbing up. 
Three hundred bobbing down, to stop 
Or speed the fierce-fought bargaining 
Upon the swarming market-place. 
Where eager Flemish women sing 
The song of travail of their race. 
On Babel's mart to women first 
The shock of many strange tongues came; 
And worry of that hour accurst 
Still works in them ; so do not blame 

The women of Givet, 
O friend of mine !" 

HI. 

•' O Peregrine ! 
What saw you in Givet?" 

•' O friend of mine ! 
The church so spacious and so white. 
In from the misty morning light- 
Not dead, but pulsing with the blood 
Of the expiring sacrifice ; 
Ne.ir which men-bearing women stood 
And gazed entranced with tearful eyes, 
Or kissed with loving lips the ground. 
Like them that stole at set of sun 
Beneath the outstretched arms, and round 
The feet of the All-saving One ! 
I saw this in Givet, 
O friend of mine !" 

JOHN PATRICK BROWN. 



THE WELL'S SECRET. 



223 



MY ARGOSY. 

My thoughts are outward in their flight, 

And restless as the foam 
Through which a good ship holds to-night 

Her westward pathway home ; 
I see her trail her sable crest, 

And spread her wings of speed. 
While every stanchion in her breast 

Is trembling like a reed. 
With gallant pride she flings aside 

The waves in angry foam. 
And night or day I watch her way. 

And sing her welcome home. 

Last eve I saw her outward bound, 

Her canvas on the gale, 
And watched her pennon wearing round 

The headland of Kinsale. 
I saw Slieve-Ronan sink behind, 

The sun go down before, 
And as a seabird on the wind 

My heart put out from shore ; 
And through the night I hailed her flight. 

Beneath the starlit dome. 
And through the day I watched her way 

And sang her welcome home. 

Betimes I see her gallant form 

Careering up the waves. 
Betimes adrift before the storm. 

Toward ocean's yawning caves ; 
Again I see her quivering spars 

Go reeling round the sky, 
Then righting, greet the topmost stars. 

And wave her pennon high 
Still through the night I hail her flight 

Beneath the starlit dome. 
And night or day I track her way, 

And sing her welcome home. 

What though she bears within her hold 

To me no treasure-trove — 
Kind Heaven ordained not links of gold 

To bind or hallow love — 
No gems of Orient mines or marts. 

No laurel wreath of fame — 
The earnest of two kindred hearts 

Is all from her I claim. 
For this to-night I hail her flight 

Beneath the starlit dome, 
And night and day for this I pray. 

And weave a welcome home. 



These are my treasure, these my prize ; 

A heart my lot to share ; 
A playful child with azure eyes. 

And sunlight in her hair. 
For these I pray the mighty Power 

That ruleth land and sea. 
However seas or skies may lower. 

To speed my Argosie ! 
And guard her flight throughout the night. 

Beneath the starry dome, 
And be the stay by night and day 

Of those I welcome home. 

JOHN BOYLE. 



THE WELL'S SECRET. 

I knew it all my boyhood : in a lonesome valley 
meadow. 
Like a dryad's mirror hidden by the wood's dim 
arches near; 
Its eye flashed back the sunshine, and grew dark 
and sad with shadow ; 
And I loved its truthful depths where every 
pebble lay so clear. 

I scooped my hand and drank it, and watched 
the sensate quiver 
Of the rippling rings of silver as the drops of 
crystal fell ; 
I pressed the richer grasses from its little trick- 
ling river. 
Till at last I knew, as friends know, every 
secret of the well. 

But one day I stood beside it on a sudden, unex- 
pected, 
When the sun had crossed the valley and a 
shadow hid the place ; 
And I looked in the dark water — saw my pallid 
cheek reflected — 
And beside it, looking upward, met an evil 
reptile face : 

Looking upward, furtive, startled at the silent, 
swift intrusion ; 
Then, it darted toward the grasses, and I saw 
not where it fled ; 
But I knew its eyes were on me, and the old- 
time sweet illusion 
Of the pure and perfect symbol I had cherished 
there was dead. 



224 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



O, the pain to know the perjury of seeming truth 
that blesses ! 
My soul was seared liUe sin to see the false- 
hood of the place ; 

And the innocence that mocked me, while in dim 
unseen recesses 



Too late ! too late ! O. could he then have know 
When his love died, that mine had perfect grow i 
That when the veil was drawn, abased, chastih. 
The censor stood, the lost one truly pnzed. 

Too late we barn— a man must hold his frieii. 



There were lurking fouler secrets than the Unjudged. accepted, trusted to the end. 

furtive reptile face. John ii.ivi.E oreili 



WASTED FOUNTAINS 



And since then, — O, why the burden?— when 

the joyous faces greet me, I 

With eyes of limpid innocence, and words 

devoid of art, ..^^nd ,|,eir nobles Imvc Kilt their litlle . 

I cannot trust their seeming, but must ask what they came to the pit>, and found no water; 

eyes would meet me , ""^" "'^'' 'rap'y-'-/"-""'"'*, «iv- 3- 

Could 1 look in sudden silence at the secrets ] ^vhen the fitful fever of the soul 



of the heart. 



JOHN BOVLE OREILLY. 



A LOST FRIEND. 

My friend he was ; my friend from all the rest ; 
With childlike faith he oped to me his breast ; 
No door was locked on altar, grave or. grief ; 
No weakness veiled, concealed no disbelief ; 
The hope, the sorrow and the wrong were bare, 
And ah, the shadow only showed the fair. 

I gave him love for love ; but deep within 
I magnified each frailty into sin ; 
Each hill-topped foible in the sunset glowed, 
Ob.scuring vales where rivered virtues flowed. 
Reproof became reproach, till common grew 
The captious word at every fault I knew. 
He smiled upon the censorship, and bore 
With patient love the touch that wounded sore ; 
Until at length, so had my blindness grown, 
He knew 1 judged him by his faults alone. 

Alone, of all men, I who knew him best. 
Refused the gold, to take the dross for test ! 
Cold strangers honored for the worth they saw ; 
His friend forgot the diamond in the flaw. 

At last it came — the day he stood apart. 
When from my eyes he proudly veiled his heart ; 
When carping judgment and uncertain word 
A stern resentment in his bosom stirred ; 
When in his face I read what I had been. 
And with his vision saw what he had seen. 



Is awakened in thee first ; 
And thou gocst like Judah's children forth 
To slake thy burning thirst ; 

And when dry and wasted, like the springs 

Sought by that little band. 
Before thee, in their emptiness. 

Life's broken cisterns stand ; — 

When the ripened fruits, that tempted. 

Turn to ashes on the taste ; 
And thine early visions fade and pass, 

Like the mirage of the waste ; — 

When faith darkens, and hopes languish. 
In the shade of gathering years ; 

And the urn thou bear'st is empty. 
Or o'erflowing with thy tears, 

Because those transient springs have failed th^ 

And those founts of youth are dried ; 
I Wilt thou, among the mouldering stones. 
In weariness abide ? 

Wilt thou sit among the ruins. 
With all words of cheer unspoken, 

Till the silver chord is loosened ; 
Till the golden bowl is broken ? 

Up, and onward ! towards the east 

Green oases thou shalt find ; 
Streams that rise from higher sources 

Than the |>ools thou leav'st behind. 

Life has import more inspiring 

Than the fancies of thy youth ; 
It has hopes as high as heaven ; 

It has labor,— it has truth. 



RELATED SOULS. 



It has wrongs that may be righted, 
Noble deeds that may be done ; — 

Its great battles are unfought, 
Its great triumphs are unwon. 

There is rising from its troubled deeps 

A low, unceasing moan ; 
There are aching, there are breaking 

Other hearts beside thine own. 

From strong limbs, that should be chainless, 

There are fetters to unbind ; 
There are words to raise the fallen ; 

There is light to give the blind. 

There are crushed and broken spirits. 
That electric thoughts may thrill ; 

Lofty dreams to be embodied 
By the might of one strong will. 

There are God and Truth above thee. — 

Wilt thou languish in despair.? 
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet, — 

Scale the walls of Heaven by prayer. 

'Tis the key of the apostle 

That opes Heaven from below ; 
'Tis the ladder of the patriarch. 

Whereon angels come and go. 

ANNE C. L. BOTTA. 



RELATED SOULS. ^ 

Between us may roll the severing ocean 

That girdles the land where the red suns set, 
But the spell and thrill of that strange emotion 

Which touched us once is upon us yet. 
Ever your soul shadows mine, o'crleaning 

The deepest depth of my inmost thought ; 
And still on my heart comes back the meaning 

Of all your eloquent lips have taught. 
Time was not made for spirits like ours, 
Nor the changing light of the changing hours ; 
For the life eternal still lies below 
The drifted leaves and the fallen snow. 



Can we forget — v\hile these memories waken, 
Like golden strings 'neath the player's hands, 
Or as palms that quiver by night winds shaken, 
Warm with the breath of the perfumed lands ? 
Philosophy lifted her torch on high, [thereby. 
And we read the deep things of the spirit 
And I stood in the strength your teachings gave 
As under truth's mighty architrave. 

Royally crowned were those moments of feeling. 

Or sad with the softness of twilight skies. 
While silent tears came mournfully stealing 

Up thro' the purple depths of our eyes ! 
I think of you now— while ocean is dashing 

The foam in a thunder of silver spray. 
And the glittering gleams of the white oars 

Die in the sunset flush of the day. [flashing 
For all things beautiful, free, divine. 
The music that floats thro' the waving pine. 
The starry night, or the infinite sea. 
Speak with the breath of your spirit to me. 

All my soul's unfulfilled aspiration — 

Founts that How from eternal streams — 
Awoke to life, like a new creation. 

In the Paradise light of your glowing dreams. 
As gold refined in a three-fold fire. 

As the Talith robe of the sainted dead. 
Were the pure, high aims of her heart's desire, 
The words we uttered, the thoughts half said. 
j We spoke of the grave with a voice unmoved, 
I Of love that could die as a thing disproved, 
i And we poured the rich wine, and drank at our 

pleasure. 
Of the higher life, without stint or measure. 

Time fled onward without our noting, 

Soft as the fall of the summer rain, 
While thoughts in starry cascades came floating 

Down from the living fount of the brain. 
Vet, better apart ! Without human aidance 

I cross the river of Life and fate — [dence 
Wake me no more, with that voice, whose ca- 

Could lure me back from the Golden Gate ; 
For my spirit would answer your spirit's call. 
Though life lay hid where the death-shadows fall, 
.\nd the mystic joys of the world unseen 
Would be less to me than the days that have 
been. 



Chords struck clear from our human nature Life may be fair in that new existence [joice, 

Will vibrate still to that past delight, , Where saints are crowned and the saved re- 

When our genius sprang to its highest stature, j But over the breadth of the infinite distance 

And we walk like gods on the spirit height. | I'll lean and listen to hear your voice. 



220 



POEMS OJ- KEFLECTIOX. 



For never on earth, thoutjh the tempest rages, 
And never in heaven, if God be just. 

Never through all the unnumbered ages 
Can souls be parted that love and trust. 

Walt — there are worlds diviner than this. 

Worlds of splendor, of knowledge and bliss! 

Across the death river— the victory won— 

We shall meet in the litjht of a changeless sun. 

LAUV WILUE. 



Around the future Jove has cast 
A veil like night : he gives us power 
To see the present and the past. 
But kindly hides the coming hour. 
And smiles when man with daring eye 
Would pierce that dread futurity. 



TO MAECENAS. 
Maecenas, thou whose lineage springs 

From old Etruria's kings. 
Come to my humble dwelling. Haste ; 
A caskunbroached of mellowed wine 
Awaits thee, roses interlaced 
And perfumes pressed from nard divine. 
Leave Tibur sparkling with its thousand rills 
Forget the sunny slopes of ^Esute. 
And rugged peaks of Telagonian hills 
That frown defiance on the Tuscan sea. 
Forego vain pomps, nor gaze around 
From the tall turret of thy palace home 
On crowded masts, and summits temple- 
crowned. 
The smoke, the tumult, and the wealth of 
Rome. j 

Come, loved Maecenas, come I 

How oft in lowly cot 
Uncurtained, nor with Tyrian purple spread. 
Has weary State pillowed its aching head 
And smoothed its wrinkled brow, all cares 

forgot .' 
Come to my frugal feast and share my humble 

lot. 
For now returning Cepheus shoots again 
His fires long-hid; now Procyon, and the 
Of the untamed Lion blaze amain : [Star 

Now the light vapors in the heated air 

Hang quivering: now the shepherd leads 
His panting flock to willow-bordered meads 

By river banks; or to those dells [dwells. 
Remote, profound, where rough Silvanus 
Where by mute margins silent waters creep, | 

And the hushed zephyrs sleep. 

Too long by civil cares opprest 
Snatch one short inter\'al of rest. 
Nor fear lest from the frozen North 
Don's arrowed thousands issue forth. 
Or hordes from realms by Cyrus won. 
I Or Scythians from the rising sun. 



Wisely and justly guide thy present state. 
Life's daily duty : the dark future flows 
Like some broad river, now in calm repose 
Gliding untroubled to the Tyrrhene shore. 

Now by fierce floods precipitate. 

And on its frantic bosom bearing 
Homes, herds, and flocks, 
Drowned men and loosened rocks . 
Uprooted trees from groaning forests toarint; . 
Tossing from peak to peak the sullen waters 



Blest is the man who dares to say. 
Lord of myself. I've lived to-day : 
To-morrow let the Thunderer roll 
Storm and thick darkness round the pole, 
Or purest sunshine : what is p>ast 
Unchanged for evermore shall last : 
Nor man, nor Jove's resistless power 
Can blot the record of one vanished hour. 

Fortune capricious, faithless, blind. 

With cruel joy her pastime plays. 

Exalts, enriches, and betrays ; 

One day to me. anon to other kind. 

I can approve her when she stays. 

But when she shakes her wanton wing, 

.And soars aloft, her gifts to earth I fling, 

.And, wrapped in Honor's mantle, live and die 

Content with dowerless poverty. 

When the tall ship, with bending mast, 

Reels to the fury of the blast. 

The merchant trembles and deplores, 

Not his own fate, but buried stores 

From Cyprian or Phcenician shores: — 

He with sad vows and unavailing prayer 

Rich ransom offers to the angry gods; 

I stand erect ; no groans of mine shall e'er 

.Vffront the quiet of those blest abodes: 

My light, unburthened skiff shall sail 

Safe to the shore before the gale, 

While the twin sons of Leda point the way. 

.\nd smooth the billows with benignant ray- 

.STEPHEN DE VERE. 
Horace, Jiwk III. die 29. 



TO LONGFELLOW. 



227 



INTACTIS OPULENTIOR. 
Though India's virgin mine. 

And hoarded wealth of Araby be thine ; 
Though thy wave-circled palaces 

Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas. 
When on thy devoted head 
The iron hand of Fate has laid 
The symbols of eterm.1 doom, 

What power shall loose the fetters of the 
dead ? 

What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb? 



Happier the nomad tribes whose wains 
Drag their rude huts o'er Scythian plains ; 

Happier the Getan horde 
To whom unmeasured fields afford 
Abundant harvests, pastures free : 

For one short year they toil, 
Then claim once more their liberty. 
And yield to other hands the unexhausted 
soil. 



The tender-hearted stepdame there 
Nurtures with all a mother's care. 
The orphan babe : no wealthy bride 
Insults her lord or yields her heart 
To the sleek suitor's glozing art. 
The maiden's dower is ■f)urity. 
Her parents' worth, her womanly pride. 
To hate the sin, to scorn the lie. 
Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die. 



I He hears : he fears no toil, nor sword, nor 

sea; 
He shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous 
poverty. 

Forth ! 'mid a shouting nation bring 
Thy precious gems, thy wealth untold : 

Into the seas, or Temple, fling 
Thy vile unprofitable gold. 

Roman ! Repent, and from within 

Eradicate thy darling sin : 

Repent! and from thy bosom tear 

The sordid shame that festers there. 

Bid thy degenerate sons to learn 
In rougher schools a lesson stern : — 
The high-born youth, mature in vice. 

Pursues his vain and reckless course. 
Rolls the Greek hoop or throws the dice, 

But shuns the chase and dreads the horse. 
His perjured sire with jealous care 
Heaps riches for his worthless heir. 
Despised, disgraced, supremely blest. 
Cheating his partner, friend, and guest. 
Uncounted stores his bursting coffers fill, 
But something unpossessed is ever wanting 
still. 

STEPHEN DE VERE. 
Homce, Book ///. ft/,- 24. 



Breathes there a patriot brave and strong 
Would' right his erring country's wrong. 
Would heal her wounds and quell her rage .- 
Let him with noble daring first 
Curb Faction's tyranny accurst : 

So may some future age 
Grave on his bust, with pious hand, 
The F.vrHER of his native land: 
Virtue yet living we despise. 
Adore it lost, and vanished from our eyes. 

Cease, idle wail ! 
The sin unpunished, what can sighs avail.' 

How weak the laws by man ordained. 

If Virtue's law be unsustained ! 

A second sin is thine! The sand 
Of Araby, Gaetulia's sun-scorched land. 
The desolate realms of Hyperborean ice. 
Call with one voice to wrinkled avarice ■ 



TO LONGFELLOW. 
I Pensive within the Colosseum's walls 
] I stood with thee, O Poet of the West ! 
The day when each had been a welcome guest 
In San Clemente's venerable halls : — 
With what delight my memory now recalls 
That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, 
When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, 
That noble head, that might well serve as Paul's, 
j In some divinest vision of the saint [dead, 

1 By Raphael dreamed— I heard thee mourn the 
' The martyred host who fearless there, tho' faint, 
Walked the rough road that up to heaven's 

gate led : 
These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint 
In golden hues that here perchance have fled. 

Yet take the colder copy from my hand, 
Not for its own, but for the Master's sake ; 
Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take 
From that divinest soft Italian land 



228 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Fixed shadows of theiieauliful and grand 
In sunless pictures that the sun doth malce — 
Reflections that may pleasant memories wake 
Of all that Raphael touched, or Angelo planned:— 
As these may keep what memory else might lose. 
So may this photojsfraph of verse impart 
An image, though without the native hues 
Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, 
Of what thou lovest thro' a kindred muse 
That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. 
OEMS FLORENCE McCARTHV. 
—DtdicatioH of Calderon's "Chrysanthut amdVarU." 



A FALLEN STAR. 
I. 
I sauntered home across the park, 

And slowly smoked my last cigar ; 
The summer night was still and dark. 
With not a single star. 

And, conjured by. I know not what, 
A memory floated through my brain. 

The vision of a friend forgot, 
Or thought of now with pain. 

A brilliant boy that once 1 knew. 

In far-off, happy days of old, 
With sweet, frank face, and eyes of blue, 

And hair that shone like gold : 

Fresh crowned with college victory. 
The boast and idol of his class. — 

With heart as pure, and warm, and free 
As sunshine on the grass ! 

A figure sinewy, lithe, and strong, 
A laugh infectious in its glee, 

A voice as beautiful as song. 
When heard along the sea. 

On me, the man of sombre thought. 
The radiance of his friendship won. 

As round an autumn tree is wrought 
The enchantment of the sun. 

He loved me with a tender truth. 

He clung to me as clings the vine. 
And. like a brimming fount of youth. 

His nature freshened mine. 

Together hand in hand we walked : 
We threaded pleasant country ways. 

Or, couched beneath the limes, we talked. 
On sultry summer days. 



For me he drew aside the veil 
Before his bashful heart that hung. 

And told a sweet, ingenuous tale 
That trembled on his tongue. 

He read me songs and amorous lays. 
Where through each slender line a fire 

Of love flashed lambcntly, as plays 
The lightning through the wire. 

A nobler maid he never knew 
Than she he longed to call his wife ; 

A fresher nature never grew 
Along the shores of life. 

Thus rearing diamond arches up 
Whereon his future life to build, 

He quaffed all day the golden cup 
That youthful fancy filled. 

Like fruit upon a southern slope. 
He ripened on all natural food. — 

The winds that thrill the skyey cope. 
The sunlight's golden blood ; 

And in his talk I oft discerned 
A timid music vaguely heard ; 

The fragments of a song scarce learned, 
The essays of a biid, — 

The first faint notes the poet's breast. 

Ere yet his pinions warrant flight. 
Will, on the margin of the nest. 

Utter with strange delight. 

Thus rich with promise was the boy. 

When, swept abroad by circumstance. 
We parted.— he to live, enjoy. 

And I to war with chance. 

II. 
The air was rich with fumes of wine 

When ne.xt we met. 'Twas at a feast. 
And he, the boy I thought divine. 

Was the unhallowed priest. 

There was the once familiar grace. 
The old. enchanting smile was there ; 
I Still shone around his handsome face 
The glory of his hair. 

But the pure beauty that I knew 

Had lowered through some ignoble task ; 

Apollo's head was peering through 
A drunken bacchant's mask. 



THE CONVENT PORTER. 



229 



The smile, once honest as the day, 
Now waked to words of grossest wit ; 

The eyes so simply frank and gay, 
With lawless fires were lit. 

He was the idol of the board ; 

He led the careless, wanton throng ; 
The soul that once to heaven had soared 

Now grovelled in a song. 

He wildly flung his wit away 
In small retort, in verbal brawls, 

And played with words as jugglers play 
With hollow brazen balls. 

But often when the laugh was loud. 
And highest gleamed the circling bowl 

I see what unseen passed the crowd, — 
The shadow on his soul. 

And soon the enigma was unlocked 
The harrowing history I heard, — 

The sacred duties that he mocked. 
The forfeiture of word. 

And how he did his love a wrong — 
His wild remorse — his mad career — 

And now — ah ! hearken to that song, 
And hark the answering cheer ! 

HI. 

Thus musing sadly on the law 

That lets such brilliant meteors quench, 
Down the dark path a form I saw 

Uprising from a bench. 

Ragged and pale, in strident tones 
It asked for alms — I knew for what ; 

The tremor shivering through its bones 
Was eloquent of the sot. 

It begged, it prayed, it whined, it cried. 
It followed with a shuffling tramp — 

It would not, could not be denied, — 
I turned beneath a lamp. 

It clutched the coins I gave, and fled 
With muttered words of horrid glee. 

When, like the white, returning dead, 
A vision rose to me. 

A nameless something in its air, 
A sudden gesture as it moved, — 

'Twas he, the gay, the debonnaire ! 
'Twas he, the boy I loved. 



And while along the lonesome park 

The eager drunkard sped afar, 
I looked to heaven, and through the dark 

I saw a falling star ! 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



THE CONVENT PORTER. 

He was an ancient, bearded man. 

Within the archway seated. 
Who through the summer, lone and long. 

The rosary repeated. 
He rang the bell for matin prayers. 

At noontide for the reapers, 
And, when the evening shadows fell. 

He rang it for the keepers. 
And sometimes, too, he knolled a knell 

For everlasting sleepers. 

From day to day he said his beads, 

Within the archway staying ; 
The sun arising found him there 

And, setting, left him praying. 
On him would little hands attend. 

And little footfalls pattered ; 
Around him, where the fig trees bend. 

Were purple treasures scattered ; 
The whispering cypress was his friend. 

For him the ivy chattered. 

But seldom at that convent gate 

A traveller dismounted ; 
The outer world of toil and hate 

Passed by it unaccounted. 
J.Ionotonous, and quaint, and calm, 

The prayerful seasons glided ; 
The vesper hymn and morning psalm 

The days alone divided. 
That by the dial, near the palm. 

Were left all undecided. 

So years went by, until one day 

The night cloud, westward rolling. 
Came round the friar's dim retreat 

Without the vesper tolling. 
The birds still sang on ivy sprays, 

The children still were playing. 
The Porter, as in former days. 

Seemed rosaries still saying. 
But — Death had found his quiet ways. 

And took the old man praying. 

CARROLL RYAN. 



POEAfS OF REFLECTION. 



OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE. 

A rustic maiden, delicately fair. 
With sweet mute lips, and eyes serene and mild. 
That look straight sunward, while, with gentle 
Clings to her side a little loving child. [air 

Linking a chain of daisies ; this is all. 
And yet methinks old memories bestir 
At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall ; 
Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her 
Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall. 

1 see the gentle vicar, old and kind, [praise ; 

The good house-mother, quick to blame and 
All the quaint story rises to my mind. [days; 
The meadow-bank that bloomed with flowering 
And in the hay-field now I seem to see 
Olivia stand, with happy down-cast eyes. 
Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy. 
While oer the ethereal blue of summer skies 
Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully. 



He sang of happy home, who home had none. 
Of sweet hearth joys whose ways were lone and 

bleak. 
And oft his voice rang out with truest tone 
When wintry winds froze tears upon his cheek. 
A deathless fount of song was ever springing 
From out his bright child-nature, pure and sweet, 
Soft comforting and surest healing bringing; 
And when earth's sharpest thorns pierced his 

feet 
His way was gladdened with his inward singing. 
KATHARINE TYXAN. 



RECOMPENSE. 



Dear friend, the grass is musical above 
The silent earth that holds thee in its peace, 

And tossing daisies seem the place to love. 
And mark the passing days with fond increase. 

Why should 1 mourn for one whose journey lies 
So near my own that I can almost hear 

His soul's swift answer, as its throb replies 
To all that stirs my soul with pain or cheer.' 

The days with their recurring songs are loud. 
Even as they were when you were here with me; 

The sunlight lingers in the floating cloud, 
The wind is sweet with saltness of the sea. 



Low calls the sparrow from the frowsy hedge, 
The oriole shines among the whispering leaves. 

The wind-flowers sway along the tumbling ledge. 
And hillsides gleam with promise of the sheaves. 

I hear the waves that murmur on the sand. 

The sea-birds crooning where the reef is bare, 
And see the white sails parting from the land. 

Bound for an Orient freight of spices rare. 

This is the path our feet so often trod. 

And yonder ancient rock the accustomed seat ; 
The buttercups are yellow in the sod. 

The clover blossoms at its base are sweet ; 

The valley narrows through the azure haze. 

Wherein the hills like massive giants loom ; 
The river sleeps in willow-guarded ways. 

And lilies star the cool and fragrant gloom. 

There is no change in leaf, or flower, or tree ; 

The wild thorn yonder is as sweet and strong 
As when you trod this winding path, and we 

Heard the clear gladness of the robin's song. 

Yes, you were here one little year ago, 
And saw the world grow wondrous sweet and 

And now alone I wander to and fro. [fair; 

And seek you. knowing that you are not there. 

The shadowy silence holds you. yet I feel. 

When in the old familiar haunts 1 stand. 
That one swift moment can your face reveal. 

And give to me the clasping of your hand. 

THDMAS S. COLLIKR. 



THE WINTERS. 

We did not fear them once ; tlK- dull grey mom ■ 
ings 
No cheerless burden on our spirits laid ; [ings 

The long night watches did not bring us warn- 
That we were tenants of a house decayed. 

The early snows like dreams to us descended ; 
The frost did fairy work on pane and bough ; 

Beauty, and power, and wonder have not ended— 
How is it that we fear the winters now ? 

Their home fires fall as bright on hearth and 
chamber. 

Their northern stariight shines as coldly clear; 
The woods still keep their holly for December, 

The world a welcome vet for the new year. 



COM PENS A TION. 



231 



And far away in old remembered places 
The snowdrop rises and the robin sings ; 

The sun and moon look out with loving faces ; 
Why have our days forgot these goodly things ? 

Why is it now the north wind finds us shaken 

By tempests fiercer than its bitter blast. 
Which fair beliefs and friendship, too, have taken 

Away like summer foliage as they passed ; 
And made life leafless in its pleasant valleys. 

Waning the light of promise from our day, 
Till the mists meet even in the inward palace, 

A dimness not like theirs to pass away ? 

It was not thus when dreams of love and laurels 

Gave sunshine to the winters of our youth. 
Before its hopes had fallen in fortune's quarrels 

Or time had bowed them with his heavy truth; 
Ere yet the twilights found us strange and lonely, 

With shadows coming when the fire burns low 
To tell of distant graves and losses only ; 

The past that cannot change and will not go. 

Alas ! dear friends, the winter is within us. 

Hard is the ice that grows about the heart, 
With petty cares and vain regrets that win us 

From life's true heritage and better part. 
Seasons and skies rejoice, yea, worship rather ; 

But nations toil and tremble even as we. 
Hoping for harvests they will never gather. 

Fearing the winters which they may not see. 

FRANCES BROWN. 



COMPENSATION. 

Yes, the years are passing quickly ; months seem 

days and days but hours ; 
Gloom is o'er us, dearth around us, ere we've 

gathered summer's flowers ; 
And the swiftly changing seasons, sped by time's 

unwearied wing. 
Mingle suns and snows together, hastening on 

from spring to spring. 

'Twas not so, my friend and comrade, when to 
us the world was new. 

Then the fields were ever blooming and the 
skies were always blue ; 

And a yearning spirit filled us to leave youth be- 
hind and stand 

Firm on manhood's highway, scanning all the 
promised golden land. 



Ah, those years of wistful dreaming ! Had we 

known what things should be 
In the future's plains and valleys, on its surging, 

storm-beat sea. 
Would desire have spurred us onward from the 

simple ways which then 
Blossomed round us, to the thorn-set paths that 

tire the feet of men ? 

Naught behind had power to hold us ; all before 

had charms to woo ; 
Hope to me held forth her gariands, Love her 

rose-wreathed crown to you ; 
Hope has vanished. Love has perished ; dust lies 

deep on rose and bay, 
Yet, though storm and gloom beset us, sunshine 

oft has warmed our way. 

Many a face has smiled upon us, brightening 

hours that else were drear, 
Many an eye with kindness kindled, sparkling 

friendship, glancing cheer ; 
O'er the scenes now fading from us, many a 

drifting cloud has strayed 
Yet, my friend, when all is balanced, we have 

seen more sun than shade. 

Dreams are gone, the world is real ; this we've 

learned and this we know ; — 
Though we build Utopian mansions, still our 

feet must tread below ; 
All the gloss and glow that fancy spreads to lure 

the steps of youth 
Fast recede and faster vanish, driven by staid, 

prosaic truth. 

Now, with grave-eyed age advancing, heralded 
by silvery gleams 

Though the locks that late were ebon, every sea- 
son shorter seems ; 

Spring makes fluttering haste for summer, au- 
tumn grasps the flowers of June, 

Winter's fretful shadows flit before September's 
mellow moon. 

Ours is not a new experience ; nay, 'tis much as 

other men's ; 
Since time's eariiest cycle human hearts have 

pondered nows and thcns ; 
This, at least, the years have taught us : roses 

bloom where snow has lain. 
And the sun, though darkness whelm it, shines 

and glorifies again. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



23; 



;!'II.ECTlO.\. 



COMPENSATIONS. 



" Why must we mourn for vanished li;^; : 

For plcasurt-s lost, as fair as lleeting. 
And weep beneath the eyes of night. 

The memory of our former greeting? 
Is joy too weak to live alway? 

Is life so fond of paie-browcJ sorrow. 
That every hope which blooms to-day 

Must fade and die before to-morrow ? " 

But—" Nay," a voice within replied, I 

So sweet I could not choose but hear it, — 
" (lod never yet hath light denied 

To those whose souls can draw them near it ; | 
Look up in trust, and see beyond j 

Those clouds of ill this vain repining, 
A fathers strength sustained and fond, 

A father's love securely shining." 

Bu; doubting still, and weak. I moan ; 

"Your heaven's too far— give something nearer ; 
Why are we left to stand alone. 

With all gone by that made life dearer ? 
The friends we seek clasp hands and part, 

The souls we love draw throbbing near us. 
Eye speaks to eye, heart leans on heart. 

When naught remains to help or cheer us." 

'■ And yet. and yet."— the voice rang clear. 

And proud as love and faith could make it, — 
" While memory holds your friendship near 

Can loss or change or sorrow break it .' 
- Soul meets with soul ;— an instant "s ray 

Can forge a chain no time can sever ; 
Thro' life, thro" death, by night and day. 

Thus meeting once they meet forever ! " 

MARY E. BLAKE. 



SOGGARTH ARGON. 

Am 1 the slave they say. 

Soggarth Aroon ? 
Since you did show the way. 

Soggarth Aroon. 
Their slave no more to be. 
While they would work with me 
Ould Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 



Why not her poorest man. 

Soggarth Aroon. 
Tr)' and do all he can. 

Soggarth Aroon. 
Her commands to fulfill 
Of his own heart and will. 
Side by side with you still. 

Soggarth Aroon? 

Loyal and brave to you. 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Yet be no slave to you. 

Soggarth Aroon. — 
Nor, out of fear to you — 
Stand up so near to you — 
Och ! out of fear \.oyou .' 

Soggarth Aroon ! 

Who, in the winter's night. 

Soggarth Aroon, 
When the could blast did bite. 

Soggarth Aroon. 
Came to my cabin-door. 
And, on my earthen-floor. 
Kn;;lt by me. sick and poor, 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

Who, on the marriage-day, 

Soggarth Aroon, 
Made the poor cabin gay, 

Soggarth Aroon — 
And did both laugh and sing. 
Making our hearts to ring. 
At the poor christening, 

Soggarth Aroon? 

Who. as friend only met. 

Soggarth Aroon. 
Never did flout me yet. 

Soggarth Aroon ? 
And when my hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim. 
What I should give lo him. 

Soggarth Aroon ? 

Och ! you. and only you, 

Soggarth Aroon ! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Soggarth Aroon; 
In love they'll never shake. 
When for ould Ireland's sake. 
We a true part ditl take. 

Soggarth Aroon. 

JOHN BANIM. 



THE WIDO WS MESSAGE TO HER SON. 



233 



THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. 

O, woman of Three Cows, agrah, don't let your 

tongue thus rattle ! 
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you 

may have cattle. 
1 have seen — and, here's my hand to you, I only 

say what's true — 
A many a one with twice your stock not half so 

proud as you. 

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't 

be their despiser. 
For worldly wealtli soon melts away, and cheats 

the very miser, 
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from 

haughty human brows ; 
Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good 

Woman of Three Cows ! 

See where Mononia's heroes lie. proud Owen 

Moore's descendants, 
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had 

the grand attendants ! 
If tluy were forced to bow to Fate, as every 

mortal bows, 
Ca.w you be proud, can _)■('« be stiff, my Woman 

of Three Cows } 

The brave sons of the lord of Clare, they left the 

land to mourning ; 
Mavrone ! for they were banished, with no hope 

of their returning — 
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths 

were driven to house .' 
Yet_)'0« can give yourself these airs, O, Woman 

of Three Cows ! 

O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom 

nothing daunted — 
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, 

unchanted ! 
He sleeps, the great O'SuIlivan, where thunder 

cannot rouse — 
Then ask yourself, should jw/ be proud,., good 

Woman of Three Cows } 

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose 

names are shrined in story — 
Think how their high achievements once made 

Erin's greatest glory — 
Yet now their bones lie mould'ring under weeds 

and cypress boughs. 
And so, for all your pride, will yours. O. Woman 

of Three Cows. 



Th' O'CarroIls also, famed when fame was only 

for the boldest. 
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and 

oldest ; 
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or 

carouse .' 
Just think of that, and hide your head, good 

Woman of Three Cows I 

Your neighbor's poor, and you. it seems, are big 

with vain ideas. 
Because, forsooth, you've got three cows, — one 

more, I see, than s)ic has ; 
That tongue of yours wags more at times than 

charity allows. 
But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman 

of Three Cows ! 

Now, there you go ! You still, of course, keep 

up your scornful bearing. 
And Fm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak 

Fm wearing. 
If I had but four cows myself, even tho' you 

were my spouse, 
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my 

Woman of Three Cows ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON. 

Remember, Denis, all I bade you say ; 

Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord, 
But of our troubles, since he went away. 

You'll mind, avick, and never say a word ; 
Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share, 
The finest summer isn't always fair. 

Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, 
She died, poor thing ; but that you needn't 
mind ; 

Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; 
But tell him God to us was ever kind. 

And when the fever spread the country o'er. 

His mercy kept the "sickness" from our door. 

Be sure you tell him hovi^ the neighbors came 
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn ; 

'T would be as well to mention them by name — 
Pat Murphy. Ned JiFCabe, and James M'Carn, 

."Xnd big Tim Daly from behind the hill; 

But say, agrah — Oh. say I missed him still. 



234 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



They came with ready hands our toil to share— "O come, and leave this land of death, this is! 

'Twas then 1 missed him most — my own right of desolation, — 

hand ; This speck upon the sun-bright face of Goii 

1 felt, although kind hearts were 'round me there, sublime creation ; 

The kindest heart beat in a foreign land, fme. Since now e'er all our fatal stars the most maliv 
Strong hand ! brave heart ! oh, severed far from I hath risen, 

By many a weary league of shore and sea. When Labor seeks the Poor-house, and Inii' 

I cence the Prison ! 

And tell him she was with us— he'll know who ; 

Mavourneen, hasn't she the winsome eyes. 
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue 

I ever saw, except in summer skies ? 
And such black hair ! It is the blackest hair 
That ever rippled over neck so fair. 



Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day. 

And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die ; 

Crouched by the road-side how he watched the 

way, [by— 

And sniffed the travelers as they passed him 

Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure, 'twas all the same. 

He listened for the foot that never came. 

Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold. 
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ; 

But, maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old. 
And things look dim before my failing sight. 

For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun 

The shirts you bring, and stitched them everyone. 

Give him my blessing, morning, noon and night. 
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good. 

That he may keep his Maker still in sight. 
And firmly stand as his brave father stood. 

True to his name, his country, and his God, 

Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad. 

ELLEN FORRESTER. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. 

I. 

" O come, my mother, come away, across the 
sea-green water ; 

O come with me and come with him, the hus- 
band of thy daughter ; 

O come with me and come with them, the sister 
and the brother. 

Who, prattling, climb thy aged knees, and call 
thy daughter—' mother !' 



'• Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husl. 
' wheat is bending ; 

I 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a bctb 
j time is sending; 

j "Tis true the island's aged face looks happi. 

and younger, 
I l>ut in the best of days we've known the sickm^ 
and the hunger. 

" When health hrcatheii out in every breeze, too 

oft we've known the fever — 
Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of 

the bereaver ; 
Too well remember many a time the mournful 

task that brought hini. 
When freshness fanned the summer air, and 

cooled the brow of autumn. 

"But when the trial, though severe, still testified 

our patience. 
He bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's 

wise dispensations ; 
We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise 

and a warning. 
Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the 

morning. 

'• But now, through all the black expanse, no 

hopeful morning breaketh — 
No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome 

song awaketh ; 
No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of 

expectation — 
Nought but the gloom that might precede the 

world's annihilation. 

" So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our 

children lead 'em 
Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty 

and to freedom ; 
Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past 

forgiving ; 
Come let us leave the dying land, and fly unto 

the living. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. 

f 



235 



" They tell us, they who read and th 

Ireland's ancient story. 
How once its Emerald flag flung out a sunburst's 

fleeting glory ; 
O! if that sun will pierce no more the dark 

clouds that efface it. 
Fly where the rising Stars of Heaven commingle 

to replace it. 

" So come, my mother, come away, across the 
sea-green water ; 

O ! come with us, and come with him, the hus- 
band of thy daughter ; 

O ! come with us, and come with them, the sis- 
ter and the brother. 

Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees and call 
thy daughter — mother." 

II. 

"Ah! go my children, go away — obey this in- 
spiration ; 

Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youth- 
ful expectation ; 

Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough 
the expectant prairies ; 

Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed 
Virgin Mary's. 

■' But though I feel how sharp the pang from 

thee and thine to sever, 
To look upon these darling ones the last time 

and for ever ; 
Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation I 

haunted, I 

IVIy heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be 

transplanted. 

" A thousand fibres still have life, although the ! 

trunk is dying— | 

They twine around the yet green grave where | 

thy father's bones are lying ; 
Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil 

on earth can loose 'em. 
Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, 

and golden sands in its bosom. 

" Others are twined around the stone, where ivy 
blossoms smother 

The crumbling lines that trace thy names, my 
father and my mother ; 

God's blessing be upon their souls — God grant, 
my old heart prayeth. 

Their names be written in the Book whose writ- 
ing ne'er decayeth. 



Ala 



! my prayers would never warm within 
those great, cold buildings. 

Those grand cathedral churches, with their mar- 
bles and their gildings ; 

Far fitter than the proudest dome that would 
hang its splendor o'er me, 

Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where 
my people knelt before me. 

" No doubt it is a glorious land to which you 

now are going. 
Like that which God bestowed of old, ^\•ith milk 

and honey flowing ; 
But where are the blessed saints of God, whose 

lives of His law remind me. 
Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the 

land I'd leave behind me.> 

" So leave me here, my children, with my old 

ways and old notions ; 
Leave me here in peace, with my memories and 

devotions ; 
Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as 

the heavens allied us. 
Let not, since we were joined in life, even the 

grave divide us. 

" There's not a week but I can hear how you 

prosper better and better. 
For the mighty fireships over the sea will bring 

the expected letter ; 
And if I need auglit for my simple wants, my 

my food or my winter firing, 
Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store a 

little for my requiring. 

" Remember with a pitying love the hapless land 

that bore you ; 
At every festal season be its gentle form before 

you ; 
When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the 

holly and ivy glisten. 
Let your eye look back for a vanished face— for 

a voice that is silent, listen ! 

" So go, my children, go away — obey this inspir- 
ation ; 

Go with the mantling hopes of health and ycum- 
ful expectation ; 

Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough 
the expectant prairies ; 

Go, in the sacred name of God, and the blessed 
Virgin Mary's." 

IJENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



POEMS OF JiEFLECriOX. 



OUR EMIGRANTS. 

Ye wander far and fai, 
I}y many a distant star, 

By many an olive shore. 
The swallows come and go. 

And come ajjain with May ; 
The tide-waves ebb and flow. 
The brown hair turns to gray, 
But ye come back no more. 

Why must ye go away 
In hundreds every day. 

As from a plague ye fled ^ — 
O young man, maid, and cuiia, 

Ye leave a fertile soil, 
A climate soft and mild, 
A land to pay all toil, 
A land of glorious dead. 

The savage rears her child, 
And in the forests wild 

Finds all his need demands; 
But from a verdant shore, 

And from the hills ye love. 
Ye rush forth evermore. 
While angels weep above — 
Sad exiles in all lands. 

Ye cut the quinine wood, 
Wliere once the red man stood, 

Where dwells the humming bird; 
Hut far and far away. 

Across the deep green sea. 
Throughout the night and day. 
Your thoughts for ever flee, 
In love that finds no word. 

Ye dig the yellow gold 

From streams of wealth untold. 

Through weary, painful hours. 
Oh ! leave it where it lies. 

Just standing where it stood, 
For to our aching eyes 

It bears a mark of blood,— 
Of your life's blood and oura, 

'Tis bought with too much pain. 
It has a crimson stain, — 

The red sweat of your hearts ; 
■^'e give it full and free, 

Ye eat the bitter bread. 
To keep the old roof-tree 
Above the bent gray head 
That to the grave departs. 



Oil ! come to us once more. 
Come from the olive shore. 

Across the salt sea-foam ; 
We'd rather than the gold 

That ye were with us here ; 
We'd suffer want and cold. 
Nor shed a single tear. 
If ye v/cre but al home. 



\Ki;.\REr KVAX. 



A PRISON DREAM. 

In a cell of old Kilmainham 

1 lay on my cold, hard bed ; 
And our loving God sent down a Dream. 

And it sat beside my head ; 
And the Dream-voice whispered low, sweet wordf?. 

And the clouds of sorrow fled. 

As a mother sits by a suffering child. 

Soothing it to its sleep. 
The gentle Dream sat by my side. 

And I could feel it weep ; 
And 1 loved it, for it came from God, 

And its love was very deep. 

The Dream rose up, and took my hand. 

And led me from the night ; 
Led me to where the sun was warm. 

And where the earth was bright ; 
And I felt like a slave who has snapped his chain 

And I laughed with a child's delight. 

I thought 1 heard a river flow. 

We stood by the river soon ; 
And the tears sprung up from my swelling heart 

When I heard its gentle tune ; 
Its notes were dear in days gone by. 

When my youth was in its noon. 

For a moment the vision fled my sight. 

And a darkness rose between ; 
And the shadow of old Kilmainham's walls 

Spread broad across the scene ; 
But it passed, like the shade of a passing cloud, 

And again the earth was green. 

And old familiar faces rose. 

And smiled on me in joy ; 
And the long-lost mates who played with me 

When I was a careless boy— 
When my life was a vein of virgin gold, 

Unstain'd by foul alloy. 



THE PLEASANT DA YS OF OLD. 



237 



And the river of my life flowed back 

To the home of my early years ; 
And I read of my suffering native land — 

I read of her hopes and fears ; 
And my mother watched me while I read. 

And her ej'es were filled with tears. 

And the smiling dream went beckoning on, 

To a quiet, spring-clad grove. 
And under the guardian trees I heard 

The voice of the one I love ; 
And the God who loveth loving hearts, 

Smiled peace on us from above. 

Again the vision fled my sight. 

And darkness rose between. 
And the shadow of old Kilmainham's walls 

Spread broad across the scene ; 
And I woke, and the loving dream had fled, 

And I was as I had been. 

JOSEPH BRENAN. 



IN AGES PAST. 



On a Paper Knife :>/ Irish. Oak. 

The fair young oak that gave thy blade 
To carver with a cunning hand. 

Stood ages since within a glade 
Of that forever shadowed land 
Where lies a slave did once command 

The world of science, art and craft : 

The fair strong oak that made thy haft 
Leafed first in rapture near a strand 

Where armored Northmen once did wade 
From bristling galleys, fore and aft. 

To meet oak spears with gleaming tips. 

That drove them, reeling, to their ships, 
Like pallid fiends, with terror daft ; 
For, high above the silver sand. 

Where spears and banners meet and mi.\. 

They hear the chant of holy lips. 
They see a god-like figure stand 
And hold against them, like a wand, 

A simple oaken crucifix. 

And deeper in the shadowed glade 

Where grew thy fair young parent tree ; 

Where spiced winds the cedars swayed. 

The sun's last rays reluctant fade 

On abbey tower overlaid 

With braided ivy, tress on tress ; 
While sweetly, from its dim recess 



Thro' cell and chapel, floats a wave 
Of undulating stringed chords : 

The abbess' voice, majestic, grave, 
Gliding thro' chancel, crypt and nave. 
Repeats in glorious Gaelic words 

A song of heavenly joy and hope. 
That thrills the ancient gray grim dun. 
And rises o'er the moated scarp. 
Whose warders' sightless eyelids ope 
When, with the setting of the sun. 

The abbess smites her oaken harp. 

MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 



THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD. 

Oh ! the pleasant days of old, which so often 
people praise ! 

True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our 
modern days ; 

Bare floors were strewed with rushes — the walls 
let in the cold ; 

Oh ! how they must have shivered in those pleas- 
ant days of old ! 

Oh ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent 

they were ! 
They threw down and imprisoned kings— to 

thwart them who might dare .' 
They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took 

from Jews their gold — 
Above both law and equity were those great 

lords of old ! 

Oh ! the gallant knights of old, for their valor so 

renowned ! 
With sword and lance, and armor strong, they 

scoured the country round ; 
And whenever aught to tempt them they met 

by wood or wold. 
By right of sword they seized the prize — those 

gallant knights of old I 

Oh ! the gentle dames of old, who, quite free 

from fear or pain. 
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see 

their champions slain ! 
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which 

made them strong and bold — 
Oh! more like men than women were those 

gentle dames of old ! 



238 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Oh ! those mighty towers of old. with their tur- I 

rets, moat and keep, | 

Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons [ 

dark and deep I I 

Full many a baron held his court within the ] 

castle hold ; , 

And many a captive languished there, in those 

strong towers of old ! 

Oh! the troubadours of old, witli their gentle 

minstrelsie 
Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er 

their lot might be ! — 
For years they ser\'ed their lady-love ere they 

their passions told — 
Oh! wondrous patience must have had those 

troubadours of old ! 

Oh ! those blessed times of old. with their chivalry 

and state ! 
I love to read their chronicles, which such brave 

deeds relate ; 
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their 

legends told — 
But, heaven be thanked ! I live not in those 

blessed times of old ! 

KRAXCKS liROWN. 



Forgotten ! well, he ran a gallant course, 
A starry path, although it closed in night — 

He crossed Oppression's path with manly for' 
And died a soldier of the host of Right. 

You may forget him— you may raise no stone 
His fame was even of the smallest span ; 

He wants no epitaph, but this alone : [man.' 

" Here sleeps a nameless man who died fm 

JOSEPH nRENAN. 



REFLECTIONS. 

. Give me my logic, then — if I must drink 
The golden draught— from minds that clearly 

think. 
And write their thoughts in proper, technic way. 
That shows me the pure gist of what they say. 
But give me no inversions, — give me not 
For weary hours to wade some dreadful plot. 
At first philosophy, at last a novel. 
Where Hodge speaks bastard logic in his hovel. 
And all the characters are of one school. 
With syllogistic cant the only rule ! 



OBLIVION. 

*'J'('M ti'ili I'l' /flr^ottm in ii 7vceJl\^' 

Forgotten I sooth, it is a dismal doom — 
The word comes toning like a funeral knell. 

Withering soul-flowers like a hot simoom. 
Breaking the dreaming boy's ecstatic spell. 

Forgotten ! yes ; and yet the young man died. 
To bring his fellows nearer to the sun ; 

And danger braved, and even death defied 
To lead them to a goal they never won. 

Forgotten ! yet he gave his sinewy youth 
To wrestle ever with the giant. Wrong, 

And waved aloft the banner of the Truth, 
And guarded it the foremost ranks among. 

And struggled bravely, while he yet had breath 
Smiting the mighty, striking for the poor ; 

And bared his bosom to the shaft of Death, 
Thinking his blood earth's gaping wounds 
could cure. 



Or, if with poesy my mind I feed. 
Give me the pipings of the grand old reed [ran 
That great ones kissed, and blew in strains that 
With heavenly solace through the mind of man. 
Give me the fond, the gay " Arabian Nights," 
With all their treasures and their dear delights ; 
With Grimm and Andersen to range the shore 
Of pristine legend and enchanted lore ; 
Or with Cervantes' knight to feel the thwack 
Of rustic cudgels on my noble back; 
To slay chimeras, with love's subtlest art 
To woo and conquer fair Dulcinea's heart. 
Or charge the wind-mills, and half dead to lie. 
With Sancho Panza and his proverbs by ! 
Give me the thought direct, that brightly runs 
O'er interstellar spaces, planets, suns, [main, 
Through earth's hard crust and hell's Tartarean 
From Milton's and from Dante's wondrous brain ! 
Give me with Homer through the battle wind. 
With all my shouting myrmidons behind. 
To urge the snorting steeds, and break the wood 
Of Trojan lances by Scamander's flood ; 
Or, with bright Tasso. on the sounding plain 
To couch the spear, and breast the arrows' rain 
I From walls of high Jerusalem, and show 
My knightly prowess 'gainst the Paynim foe ; 



STRUGGLE AND TRIUMPH. 



Or, with sweet Spenser, travel dales and woods 

To look on nature in her different moods, 

To stray with Una through enchanted groves, 

And kiss the flower of innocence she loves, 

To conquer dragons with the Red-Cross Knight, 

With Calidore behold the Graces bright, 

Or lay the iron flail of Talus strong 

On the proud backs of Ignorance and Wrong ! 

Or, if to verse at home my soul incline, 
Give me the polished thoughts that nobly shine 
Like pearls of price, or threads of virgin gold. 
Through silken pages, where the tale is told 
Of that weird Stethoscope, wherein the flies 
The doctors stunned with their deceiving cries. 
And with the Deacon let me ride away [Shay, 
Through summer woods, upon the One Hoss 
Talk with the Autocrat, and hear the Poet, [it ! 
And drink life's subtlest charm, and scarcely know 

Or give me him, high culture's noble son. 

The Scholar and the Poet both in one. 

Whose verse of varied movement falls and swells 

In melody like his cathedral bells. 

Now full and grandly caltn, now soft and tender. 

Sparkling with wit, and bright witli passion's 

splendor. 
With him down Fancy's river let me sail. 
And, with Sir Launfal, find the Holy Grail, 
Or set myself some merry hours to spend 
With quaint Hosea Biglow for my friend. 
Or by the kitchen fire to sit in clover. 
And do the blessed Courtin' ten times over ! 

Or give me him who called the armed dead — 

The Skeleton — from out his narrow bed [brave. 

By Newport Tower; with him the blasts I'll 

And tell mad stories of the Norland wave, 

In the King's hall, and there, to test my truth, 

Hold up in Alfred's face the Walrus Tooth ! 

I'll seek, with Hiawatha, the bright West, 

The infinite Green Prairies of the Blest ; 

I'll wander by Atlantic's coast, and see 

The lovely meadows of sweet Arcadie ; 

In the warm forge with Gabriel blithely sing, 

The bellows blow and make the anvils ring. 

See fair Evangeline in coif and tassel. 

And smoke a pipe with Benedict and Basil ! 

Or let me look on Death with him whose gaze 
Found philosophic lore in youthful days, [bless 
'Neath the Grim ribs, with many a thought to 
And soothe the human heart in its distress. 
Or place my hand in his, and let me go 
To sylvan places where sweet waters flow. 



And sit me down beside some crystal stream. 
And list to sounds like music in a dream, — 
The wood's deep stirrings, voice of all wild things, 
The murmur of innumerable wings. 
The song of birds, the waves, the zephyr's fan, 
And in all blended hear the voice of Pan ! 

Or I will wander out 'neath summer skies. 
With Concord's sage, to look in Nature's eyes. 
And find therein new hopes for future years. 
The while she whispers in our listening ears — 
Weird sentences and sybilline decrees [trees, 
From cave and bank of flowers, rock, fern and 
j And brook that, singing, through the green wood 

travels. 
Whose meanings he — her Priest — alone unravels! 

Or snow-bound, let me, lingering, cheer the mind 
III happy converse with companions kind, 
And with them watch the pearly wonders gleam 
O'er forest, plain, rough glen and gelid stream, 
Or frosty magic on the panes assume [bloom. 
New forms of light, transcending summer's 
And if I had them not, then let me ride 
With Skipper Ireson. feathered, tarred, and dyed, 
Through Marblehead, with rope-coils round my 

wrists. 
And hear the yells, and feel the housewives' fists 
Till I repent me, and roll back the wain 
Of truant thought to Nature's joys again ! 

ROBERT DWVER JUVCE. 
— FrOTTl a Poem inscribed to Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



STRUGGLE AND TRIUMPH. 

Rise, brother-bard, rehearse with me 
The Past, that was Futurity : 
And up the shining hills of Thought 
1 Muse o'er the deeds that men have wrought. 
And on the bright Parnassian peak 
These words of meditation speak : 

In the struggle is the triumph. 

Hail ! gracious youth, thou, too, may'st come ; 
Leave passion's revel, pleasure's hum. 
The strife, the jealousy, the guilt. 
The recklessness of error's tilt ; 
Thy soul, confirmed in noblest light. 
Will vow at last—" for truth and right. 

In the struggle is the triumph," 



240 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



O, sage— most rev'rend are thy years. 
Transfixing folly, lessning tears- 
Come, thou shalt teach me many things 
Of earth, air. sea : of paupers, kings ; 
Of angels bred in poverty. 
Of demons reared in luxury. 

Of the struggle and the triumph. 

Youth linked to age, and bard to bard 
Stand forth, united for reward ! 
And whether on the mount or plain. 
In town or forest, still retain 
The soul above the diadem. 
As champion of the apothegm— 

In the struggle is the triumph ! 

WILLIAM J. McCLURE. 



THREE SONNETS. 



NOT LOST. 



LIGHT AND DARK. 

In far. bright spaces of sun-lighted air 
My soul went wandering one summer day. 
And saw. in clouds remote, fierce lightning pla\- 
About huge worlds, whose mountains, high aii' : 
Shone lurid in the never-ceasing glare ; [bari-. 
These swung along a wild, tempestuous way 
Where storm and darkness held eternal sway. 
And high winds roared their loud, unceasing 

blare. 
Then turning from this vast and troubled seem 
In purple distances I saw those spheres 
Where life is rich with love, and glad with son^ 
Who could not choose these different workl- 

between ? 
Give me the light, even tho" it shine thro' tears . 
Annihilation is too cold and long. 

1 HO.M.VS S. COLLIER. 



Yes. cross in rest the little snow-white hands ; i 
Do you not see the lips so faintly red [fled, 

Wilh love's last kiss? Their sweetness has not 
Though now you say her sinless spirit stands 
Within the pale of God's bright summer lands. 
Gather the soft hair round the dainty head. 
.■\.s in past days. Who says that she is dead, 
.\nd nevermore will heed the old commands.' 
To your cold idols cling : I know she sleeps. 
That her pure soul is not by vext winds tost ^ 
.\Iong the pathless altitudes of space ; 
This life but sows the seed from which one reaps 
The future's harvest. No, I have not lost 
The glory and the gladness of her face. 

OBLIVION. 

.Above bright orient seas, sun-kissed, arise 
rhe legend-haunted isles in whose dim groves 
The ghoul and genii sang their burning loves ; 
Whose forest paths are rich with fragrant sighs 
Of winds that lingering pass where sleeping lies 
The glittering cobra, or where softly moves 
The lithe, sleek tiger, whose fierce blood-thirst 

proves 
The minister of death and swift surprise. 
There, sad and sleep-oppressed, the weary slave 
Sinks into dreams where fallen orange blooms 
Lie like white stars amid the odorous shade, 
And mighty ruins mark an empire's grave. 
What nation slumbers in those verdurous glooms ? 
How soon shall we to such oblivion fade .' 



SONNETS ON MEMORY 

IDEAS FADING IN THE MEMORY. 

Quickly they vanish to a land unlit, [mourn. 

Things for which no man cares to smile or 

Forgotten in the place where they were born ; 

Each hath a marvelous history unwrit, 

A fathomless river floweth over it. 

Quickly they fade, with no more traces worn 

Than shadows flying over fields of corn 

Wear, as in soft processional they flit. 

The thought (much like the children of our youti > 

Doth often die before us, and presents 

The very semblance of the monuments 

To which we are approaching aye in sooth. 

Where, though the brass and marble do not wasi< 

The tints are faded and the lines effaced. 

REVIVAL OF MEMORY. 

Sadly. O sage, thine images are told. 
Think we of cornfields, where again there fall. 
At memory's touch that is so magical. 
All the long lights that ever rippled gold. 
Across their surface, all the manifold 
Wavelets of tremulous shadow; and withal 
Through doors and windows of a haumed hall. 
Those buried children of the days of old. 
Those evanescent children of dead years. 
Clouded or glorious, glide into the room. 
Sudden as yellow leaves drop from the tree. 
And all the molder'd imagery reappears. 
I And all the letter'd lines are fair to see. 
I And all the legend lives above the tomb. 



LAST UPON THE ROLL. 



2\\ 



MARVELS OF MF.MORY. 

Strange dying, resurrection stranger yet ! 

In the deep chamber. Memory, let me dwell. 

Folded in a recess ineffable. 

Lo I in that silent chamber sadly s^t, 

I must hear, and breath of violet 

(Though npwers be none within a mile to smellj 

From breath of lily I can finely tell. 

And I with joy remember my regret. 

And I regretful, think how glad 1 was. 

O men who roam to see world-famous tracts. 

Immaculate skies, or from the mountain pass 

The great white wonder of the cataracts. 

Visits to many a lovely land ye weave 

In looms of fancy — hwX. yoiirsclnes ye leave. 

WILLIAM ALEXANDER. 



Septem- 



LAST UPON THE ROLL. 

She sits at the open window, on a calr 

ber day. 
And out on the mead before her she watches the 

girls at play ; 
On her face a breeze blows gently, and kisses 

her locks of snow. 
And she thinks of the days when she was young, 

seventy years ago. 

The fields are green as they were then, and the 

big old rocks as gray. 
The land and sky are as fair to see, the sun has 

as mild a ray ; 
The drowsy kine rest on the hill, the lambs skip 

to and fro. 
Just as they did when she was young, seventy 

years ago. 

The sturdy youth, with dancing eyes and the 

vigor of lusty veins. 
Jumps on the cok, and o'er the fence, to show no 

fear restrains ; 
Full well he knows that a neighbor's rose is 

watching behind a tree. 
And her maiden pride, at love's full tide, follows i 

him over the lea. 

The lowly cot, the mansion high, cover hill and ' 

dale the same, | 

And wealth's the pride of old and young, and 

poverty the shame ; 
And the bright blue eye of the cottage maid is 

cast demurely down. 
As she bends before a sister proud, who wears 

a silken gown. 



The tawny west falls on the mead, and the chil- 
dren homeward fly. 

For now they see the whizzing bat, and hear the 
screech-owl's cry ; 

The jumping curls strike rosy cheeks, and fear 
with laughter peals, 

For each one knows, as she whirling goes, there's 
a goblin at her heels. 

.She looks at her shrivelled fingers, and she 

smoothes her wrinkled hand. 
And the old, old love comes back to her, as she 

studies the golden band ; 
That dear old ring is loose and thin since first he 

placed it there, 
And at love's shrine he said "be mine," and 

knelt with her in prayer. 

Eighty years of joy and tears through life's sad 
chambers moan, 

And still she hears in memory's ears a once- 
familiar tone ; 

In long, sweet notes to her it floats, and it tells 
of the olden time. 

When love was strong, and life a song, and hope 
was in its prime. 

A little beyond the play-ground, on the slope of 

yonder hill, 
Her dim eyes mark the gravestones where those 

she loved lie still ; 
And her thoughts have silent nursing, and her 

soul a silent grief, 
But her tear is the bier on which her sorrow finds 

relief. 

Now her heart is as light as the mornings with 

wings of a soul made free. 
And away, away to the tender loves she is all 

love to flee ; 
And the God she adores so humbly, and the 

Christ she loves so well 
Will take her soon to the waiting ones, beyond 

life's weary spell. 

And her staff is lifted slowly, and she moves 

around with care, 
For her darlings now are sleeping — she might 

wake them unaware : 
And she gropes around to find them, and to 

bless them in her soul, 
Till a whisper comes ; — " We wait, mother ; you 

are last upon the roll." 

HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



JUDITH. 
Now sliall I live lliro" many a lonely year 
To see my deed and me to history grow ; 
And men shall call me great, and deem mc 

great. 
But other thoughts than live on lips in words 
Shall nestle voiceless in tlieir inmost hearts ; 
And women who rnay envy me my fame 
Shall grudge me not the doing of the deed 
From which my fame was born. 

When I am old. 
And when my hand is weak, and white my head, 
They shall divine a fierceness in my eye, 
And judge by all they heard, not all they sec ; 
And they shall hedge my name and me with 
And make my face part of each festival ; [state. 
But mothers who, me childless, shall proclaim 
Mother of Israel, yet shall shrink to lay 
Their innocent children on my widowed lap ; 
And innocent maids shall shudder secretly. 
And deem that blood, though justly shed, lea .es 
Upon the hand that shed it, and deem too [st^in 
The deed that made me great left me unsexed. 

By it shall I be known ; the woman's part 

In me shall be forgotten, or recalled 

To raise the strangeness of my manlike deed. 

Judith, who quailed not when her enemy's head 

Beneath her robe distilled the gory drops, — 

Who struck not once, but twice, and sawed the 

head 

From off the wine-steeped carcass of its lord — 

Who wound with fearless footstep thro' the camp. 

And from the white lips of her enemy's head 

Forced voiceless augury of the morrow's fight : 

These shall men know ! 

But not the Jewish maid 

Who gave her young heart to her heart's young 

And found the path of love and duty one, [lord 

Leading her feet within Manasses' gates — 

Not her. who out of common household cares 

Made links to bind her to her husband's heart, 

Was joyful in his joys, and in her dreams 

Saw him in honor at the city gates 

With Judah's elders, nor could even dream 

Of any fame save what must come thro' him— 

Not her, whose heart was soft and womanlike. 

So large that, like a hospitable house 

That shelters not alone the present guests 

But keeps a place for any guest God sends. 

Within that woman's heart she kept a place 

For children and grandchildren of her hope. 

JOSEPH F.ARRF.I.L. 
—From " jHditk: a Stua^" 



THE BITTER-SWEET. 

" I'd miller be 

A Pagso auckled ia a creed oulwont. 
So might 1, Rtandiaf on thi» pleasant to. 
Have cllmpae* that would make mc leu (..r.^..,.— 
Have night of Proteus rixinic from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.*' 

— II 'm-jTm^rtJt. 

When pan-pipes in young shepherds' haivK 

Sang as old Grecians tell us of. 
When the fair summer in all lands 

Was dedicate to sports of love. 
When from the sea old Triton rose. 

And lust was love and love was lust, 
iVnd on the gray clouds, in repose. 

Lay Juno, spouse of Jove august ; 
Then all life's sweetness lived on earth. 
Then its short joys were little worth. 

But now beyond the crescent moon. 

Though Dian's gone and Pan is gone, 
iVnd Clytie has forgot the boon 

That from Apollo her love won. 
There comes a gleam of higher light. 

The birds of eve no longer sing 
Of love that lives a single night. 

And brings the heart no comforting— 
The love of Clytie and the Sun, 
Of Dian and Endymion. 

The moon is sadder than of yore 

It shone on Christ and Calvary, 
The roses bear the thorns he wore. 

And sighs and moans sound on the sea 
But earth is not the end of life. 

For earthly love transfigured 
Sees rest and peace beyond the strife. 

And longing souls are homeward led 
By Him to whom the gods arc nought. 
By Him who earth and all things wrought. 
M.AURICF- F. EG.AX. 



HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 
Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born and bred on high. 
To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below 
Than victors on a triumph know ! 
Whither. O whither art thou fled. 
To lay thy meek, contented head .'' 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease ? 



.7 POOR MOTHER. 



243 



Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there; 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined ; 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks amid the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love, and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves ; 
The silent heart, which grief assails. 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks, as I have vainly done. 
Amusing thought — but learns to know 
That solitude's the nurse of woe. 

No real happiness is found 

In trailing purple o'er the grouna 

Or in a soul exalted high 

To range the circuit of the sky, 

Converse with stars above, and know 

AH nature in its forms below ; 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies. 

And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear ! 
The world itself, if thou art here. 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
I sung my wishes to the wood. 
And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd 
The branches whisper as they wav'd. 
It seemed as all the quiet place 
Confessed the presence of the Grace, 
When thus she spoke : — "Go, rule thy will. 
Bid thy wild passions all be still ; 
Know God and bring thy heart to know 
The joys which from religion flow ; 
Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
And I'll be there to crown the rest." 

O ! by yonder mossy seat. 
In my hours of sweet retreat, 
Might I thus my soul employ. 
With sense of gratitude and joy ! 
Raised as ancient prophets were. 
In heavenly wisdom, praise and pray'r ; 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
Pleased and blest with God alone. 
Then while the gardens take my sight 
With all the colors of delight, 
While silver waters glide along 
To please my ear and court my song, 
I'll lift my voice and tune my string, 
And thee, great source of Nature, sing. 



The sun that walks his airy way. 
To light the world and give the day ; 
The moon that shines with borrowed light. 
The stars that gild the gloomy night, 
The sea that rolls unnumbered waves. 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves. 
The field whose ears conceal the grain. 
The yellow treasure of the plain, — 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me ; 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 

Go, search among your idle dreams. 
Your busy or your vain extremes. 
And find a life of equal bliss. 
Or own the next begun in this. 

THOMAS PARNELL. 



A POOR MOTHER. 

" I give you joy." Her lips put on a smile 
To mock the woeful shadow in her eyes ; 
" Nay, I've no wish to blame you. Tears and 

sighs 
Won't make nor mend ; — but only, the surprise, 

.0 .sudden! . . . Let me breathe a little while. 

" See, dear, 'twas only yesterday, I thought. 
Looking abroad, the world seemed green and 

glad 
I thought, 'God's given me this, the kindest lad. 
The dearest child that ever woman had. 

And health and hands.' I envied no one aught. 

" All this, I said, is mine ; my heart beat fast 
V/ith pride, with joy, with mother's happiness. 
I held both hands above it, to repress [guess 
Great thrills of joy . . Ah, God ! I could not 

How brief a time my counted wealth would last. 

" I knew you loved her .' child, I never knew ! 
I saw you walk, and talk, and dance, and jest ; 
It seemed but foolish pastime at the best — 
And you were both so young . . Imadenotest. 

No question of the future for you two. 

" But marriage is not death .' you'll love me still .' 

A little— yes —with such love as may spread 

In overflow beyond your child's bright head. 

Your wife's fair eyes ... Ah no — the past 

lies dead, 

And time goes on, and Nature has her will. 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



" Nay— hush ! forgive me ; I must weep— or die: 
Still, dear, I bless you. Through these blintlinjj 

tears 
I greet you bravely, (or the hopes and fears 
And all the mystery of untried years. — 

I greet the man — but oh, my iay, good-bye ! 

MARY AINGE DE VERE. 



SHADOWS OF THE SUNSET. 

Woman born amonjj the roses, rosy-cheeked and 

rosy-crowned, 
Lookinjf on whom men exclaim : Behold, true 

womanhood is found ! 
This the woman's place and glory, this her liap- 

piness and bound. 

I could mock with bitter laughter, did my heart 

not break in pain 
l^or the sad fates of the silent who can never 

smile again, — 
For the tales of lonely Kansas, drifted by the 

snow and rain. 

When the stars of midnight tremble, and the 

cheek of morning pales, 
I can hear them calling, calling, as the wind, 

repentant, wails 
By the awful Lake of Donner, and the yawning 

Utah vales. 

Mothers of a new-born Nation, crowned with 

snow, and clad in fire 
By that Sun-god w-hose old altars burn beside 

the Christian spire. 
And whose feet the warm sea w-aters kiss with 

indolent desire. 

They have heard the singing bullet, they have 

watched their dead alone. 
Under heaven's seeming marble. God, an image 

overthrown. 
In the distance looming terror more than song 

has ever shown. 

They have seen the babes they cradled brained 

before their hopeless eyes. 
Smoke from charring homesteads all along the 

line of prairie rise. 
Tasted many deaths, undying, in the horrors of 

surprise. 



Aye, they suffered ; but they conquered, let il- 

border cities tell 
Where they sowed those gracious flowers wonn 

know and love so well. 
How upon their shining steps the dews of bin 

diction fell. 

And their daughters, straight and ruddy, nursccl 
at breast the frost wind bared. 

Meeting danger as a playmate, daring all that 
men have dared. 

Can their free-born courses by your petty ton 
passes be squared .' 

Man of men the ruler! Poet, far more generci 

;md true. 
You shall walk the deep-sea hollows, you sIul; 

climb the clouded blue. 
Ere the slightest woman's heart will yield its 

secrets up to you. 

MARION MLIK 



FREEDOM AND LOVE. 

Oh ! that my lips with sacred fire 

Were touched, that I might speak the word 
That, leaping from the impassioned lyre. 

Should flash electric through love's chord ; 

That this, responsive to the voice 

That greeting man, proclaimed him free. 

Thrilling through earth should bid rejoice 
The great heart of Humanity ! 

Freedom and Love ! divinest gifts 

By gracious Heaven on man bestowed ; 

To Heaven itself Love's magic lifts 

The soul where Freedom's light hath glowed. 

For he whose breast hath never felt 

The rapture liberty inspires, — 
Love's fire his soul shall never melt, — 

Its spirit in his grasp expires. 

A nobler destiny is ours 

Than despots of our slaves to make ; 
And scorning Heaven's life-giving showers. 

Our thirst at turbid waves to slake. 

O brothers ! cast the bonds aside 

That in a slavery blind and base 
Have held our souls ; and deified. 

No more let Self usurp Love's place. 



WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN? 



245 



From every clime, in every tongue 

The greeting shout from man to man : — 

Freedom, full-armed, from Light hath sprung 
To end the strife that greed began. 

And Love, divinely fair and bright, 
Shall crown with peace the new bom reign; 

Justice return to earth ; and Right, 
Not Might, hold sway o'er men again. 

MARY J. SERRANO. 



TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. 

Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, 

How it plashes on the window-sill I 
Night, I guess, too, must be on the wane, 

Strass and gass * around are grown so stiU. 
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — 

Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow 
In the tavern where I loved to sup 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Twenty years ago, alas ! — but stay — 

On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! 
After all, the hours do slip away — ■ 

Come, here goes to burn another block ! 
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold. 

And my fire is dwindling rather low ; — 
I had fire enough, when young and bold. 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow ; 

Few in Weimar dream how bad I am; 
Floods of tears grow common with me now, 

High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. 
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive 

If I mope at home so ; — I don't know — 
Am I living no%u ? I was alive 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone. 

Not quite bookless, tho', unless 1 choose, 
Left with naught to do, except to groan. 

Not a soul to woo, except the muse — 
Oh ! this is hard for me to bear. 

Me, who whilom lived so much e7i Jiaut. 
Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware. 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Perhaps 'tis better ;— time's defacing waves 
Long have quench'd the radiance of my brow- 

They who curse me nightly from their graves, 
Scarce could love me were they living now ; 



But my lonelmess hath darker ills — 

Such dun-duns as Conscience.Thought and Co., 

Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills, 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Did I paint a fifth of what I feel. 

Oh, how plaintive you would ween I was ! 
But I won't, albeit I have a deal 

More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers. 

Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe 
Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Yet may Deutschland's bardlings ilourish long , 

Me, I tweak no beak among them ; hawks 
' Must not pounce on hawks ; besides in song 
, I could once beat all of them by chalks. 
I Though you find me, as I near my goal, 
j Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, 
I Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul 
I Twenty golden years ago ! 
i 
Tick-tick, tick-tick ! not a sound save Time's 

And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — 
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, 

Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain ! 
Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes ; 
Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — 
Curious anti-climax to thy dreams 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN ? 

I What hath Time taken .' Stars that shone 

On the early years of earth. 
And the ancient hills they looked upon. 

Where a thousand streams had birih ; 
I Forests that were the young world's dower, 
! With their long unfading trees ; [power,— 
' And the halls of wealth, and the thrones of 

He hath taken more than these. 

He hath taken away the heart of youth. 

And its gladness, which hath been 
Like the summer sunshine o'er our path. 

Making the desert green ; 
The shrines of an early hope and love. 

And the flowers of every clime. 
The wise, the beautiful, the brave. 

Thou hast taken from us, Time ! 



246 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



What hath Time left us ?— desolate 

Cities and temples lone. 
And the mijjhty works of genius, yet 

Glorious when all are gone ; 
And the light of memory, lingering long 

At eve on the western seas, — 
Treasures of science, thought and song, — 

He hath left us more than these. 
He hath left us a lesson of the past. 

In the shades of perished years; 
He hath left us the heart's high places waste, 

And Its rainbows fallen in tears. [still, 

But there's hope for the earth and her children 

Unwithered by woe or crime. 
And a heritage of rest for all. — 

Thou hast left us these. O Time ! 

FRANCES BROWN. 



THE OLDEN TIME. 
My blessing rest upon thee, thou merry, olden 

time, 
When the fairies were in fashion, and the world 

was in its prime ; 
Every ruin had its goblin, every green rath had 

its fay, 
Till the light of Science chased them from their 

ancient haunts away. 
How rich wcrt thou in legends, of magic lamps 

and ring — 
Of genii, whom a single word to mortal aid 

would bring ; 
Of caves of gold and diamonds, where foot had 

never been, 
Till by the favored one their depths were all un- 
veiled and seen. 

Thou wert the time for monarchs — then kings 

were kings indeed. 
With potent, fairy sponsors to summon at their 

need; 
Whose wands could change their enemies to 

marble at their will : 
Ah, many a king would need to have those 

wands of power still ! 

O cruel race of stepmothers ! where have you 

vanished now .' 
Where are the henpecked husbands who before 

you used to bow, 
And yield their lovely daughters to glut your 

jealous ire. 
Forgetful, mid your blandishments, of ev'n the 

name of sire ? 



Sweet beauteous f>ersecuted tribe, princesses 

young and fair. 
With faces like a poet's dreams, anil veils of 

flowing hair. 
Beloved by vile enchanters, who turned to stone 
i and wood, 

The princes who to rescue you dared steel, and 

tire, and flood ; 

I Fierce cannibalish giants, who dwelt in forests 

wild. 
And worn and weary wayfarers to darksome 

dens beguiled ; 
Brave knights with charmed weapons, who laid 

the monster low. 
And opening wide the dungeon doors, bid cease 

the captive's woe,— 

Where are you all departed.'— where lie your 

treasures hid .' 
Where are the pearls and emeralds that came 

when they were bid .' 
Where are the mines of gold and gems, that but 

to think of now, 
Dazzles our mental eyes with light— Old World, 

where art thou .' 

We want those endless riches, we want the 

magic spells. 
That brought the fairies to your aid, from woods 

and hills, and wells ; 
We've no enchanters now-a-day. no cabalistic 

flames — 
The worid has lost them all. and keeps but their 

time-honored names. 

O. could I find a magic wand, I'd bring those 

days again — 
I'd call the treasures from the caves of earth and 

throbbing main ; 
The land should be a glorious land, as 'twas in 

ancient time. 
When the fairies were in fashion, and the world 

was in its prime. 

.ANONYMOUS. 



THE RIVER OF TIME. 
Oh, River of Time ! the long ago thou wert but 

a rippling rill. 
And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow was 

sweet as wind-harp's trill ; 
That song of joy like a lullaby on the air rose 

soft and low. 
As thy ripples sped from their fountain-head 

and flashed in the morning's glow ; 



While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen, 

flower-crowned by angel hands. 
The beauteous grace of her mirror'd face oft 

scann'd in thy golden sands ; 
And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic noon, t 

when her full, round orb shone bright. 
Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide, pale 

shimmering in her light. 
While the primal stars in their gilded cars rolled I 

on through the azure hight — ! 

Fair, glittering gems, bright diadems high set on I 

the brow of Night. I 

Oh, River of Time ! thy stream has swelled thro' 

the centuried lapse of years — 
Has grown and swelled since of old it welled 
from its fount 'mid the starry spheres, , 

Till now, broad and deep, with majestic sweep, i 

like the roll of an inland sea, ' 

That stream, erst a rill, turns God's mighty mill 

on its course lo eternity ! 
Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear on 

the ghostly midnight wind, j 

The surge and the roar of thy waves evermore | 

and the rush of the flood behind, ] 

And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom tossed, i 

like wrecks on the ocean waves, ' 

Drifting out to sea, oh. River, with thee, far ! 

away from the land of graves ! j 

Oh, River of Time ! from the days of yore flow- 
ing on to the billowy sea. 

Bring us back once more from the silent shore 
the friends who have flown with thee, 

The myriad host of the loved and lost — the hearts 
that were fond — ah, me ! — 

The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark womb 
—the spirits that wander free 

From sin's dark slime in that wondrous clime- 
bright land of the ransomed souls, 

Where Death's cold shadow ne\'er falls, nor 
death-bell sadly tolls. 

Ah ! in vain we crave, for thy ebbless wave, 
when it passeth the grave's dark bourne. 

With its freight of souls, as it seaward rolls, 
never can nor will return ! 

Oh, River of Time ! flowing slowly on, with the 
wrecks of our hopes and dreams — 

On, evermore on to the great Unknown, where 
the rapturing vision gleams. 

And the white souls float in space, as the mote 
on summer's irradiant beams — 



'^ 247 

Oh ! swollen thy flood with the priceless blood 
which ever and ay doth well 

From human souls slain on Life's battle-plain 
by the ambushed hosts of hell; 

Sin's juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls thick 
strewn on the field of strife. 

While thy mystic tide with their blood is dyed- 
red blood from the battle of life ! 

Oh, River of Time ! in the dim. dark past, full 

many and many a year, 
Thou'st left thy fount on that sacred mount, 

long lost to both sage and seer ; 
No human eye, as the years sped by, has ever 

beheld, I ween. 
That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, all 

bright in its virgin sheen. 
Since the first twain fell 'neath the tempter's 

spell, amid Eden's flowery bowers, 
When earth was young, ere yet upsprung the 

thorns among the flowers ; 
When thy limpid stream in the morning gleam 

reflected the heavenly towers. 
And Paradise rang with the silvery clang of the 

harps of seraphic powers ; 
For Earth, at its birth, in its child-like mirth, 

flower-gemmed and green and fair, 
Careering through space, in emulous race with 

the stars and the spirits of air, 
Was Higher, I ween, to the angelic scene, than 

this Earth of ours to-day. 
With its deep, dark crime, oh. River of Time — 

in sorrow and sin grown gray ! 

T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. 



OSSIAN. 



Ossian, son of the Kmg, thy name to me 
Comes like a burst of magic music, blown 
By some stray wand'ring wind from o'er the sea. 
That over perfumed woods and vales hath flown, 
Gath'ring bright memories of those olden day. 
When higher rose than all the clash of war. 
Or roar of winds and waters, thy proud lays ; 
Till, as we listen, all the direful jar [strain. 

Of those wild times sinks hushed before thy 
That filled green Erin's land from main to sound- 
ing main. 

O prince, and bard, and knight of high emprise, 
Thou wert a ray of glory through the gloom, 
A golden morning star in thund'rous skies, 
X strong enchanter at whose touch the tomb 



24!^ 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Opes wide its f^ates and renders back its dead, 
Whose deeds shall never die while song has power 
To spread its halo round the hero's head 
(Such is of song supreme the priceless dower) ; 
Who dared and did for nrtue. loN-e and fame. 
In those heroic days when life was linng flame. 

O royal bard ! whose deeds were as thy song, 
A light sublime to guide the souls of men ; 
O stainless knight ! whose war was waged on 
On throned king and bandit in his den ; [wrong, 
O sweet, strong voice ! too oft a voice of dole, 
No singer e"er had sorrow great as thine ; [soul 
Ten thousand swords did pierce thy heart, thy 
Was one dark sea of sadness, one deep mine 
Of woe no tongue, or pen. or song could tell — 
Wherefore thy strain endures, — whence thou 
didst sing so well. 

JAMES KEEGAN. 



THE BARDS OF OLD. 

Those oklen bards, those glorious bards, who ' 

sang in the distant times, — 
They stir me like a trumpet bl.ist — their wild 

melodious rhymes ; 
In those old strains, o'er Erin's plains the Fenian I 

legions march, , 

And still their living deeds are blazed on song's I 

triumphal arch. I 

I see the stern unconquered Fionn, that thunder- 
bolt in fight, 
Pursue from Tara's princely bowers young 

Grainne's love-lit flight ; 
The milk-white stag on Lenc's cLar strand her 

northward swift career ; 
Deep-mouthed Bran, the matchless hound, and 

Osgar's magic spear ; 
The chase, the strife, the free, gay life,— witch. 

dragon, men and beast ; 
The games they played, the works they made. 

the rich and joyful feast : 
That was the life— 'twas life indeed; those were 

the glorious times, 
When men wrought deeds well worthy song, and 

bards sang deathless rhymes. 

Those olden bards, those glorious bards, who 

reigned when earth was young, — 
When Love and Beauty fired their muse, how 

sweet the songs they sung ! 1 

They're living still, shall live for aye, those queens j 

and ladies bright. 1 

Who sat enthroned in the world of song, like 

stars in summer's night. I 



There Niav, the maid of golden curls, still curb 

her snow-white steed.— 
She whose soft eyes and jewelled hand are wnr- 

rior minstrels' meed ; 
O'er Muma's sea in twilight bower swan-bosonu-. ! 

Cliona reigns, 
And Deirdre's fate still wakes the tear in Ul.i-l 

lonely plains ; 
To the moaning wind on Moyle's cold wave Lir 

daughters yet are wailing, 
And still in the low moon's waning light the 

cygnets sad are sailing. 
Sublime were the lays of the olden, bards, and 

sweet the songs they sung ; 
And though the world grows old and hoar, their 

strains are ever young. 

Those olden bards, those glorious bards, thi , 

sang of land and sea. 
The stars that roll through changeless paths, ll 

winds that rove so free ; 
A pjean of joy to Sol they poured, to Lun.i 

gladsome hymn, — 
An ode to the light of day so bright, a ranit ; 

the d.irk night dim. 
They looked to the sky with raptured eye. thr 

dreamed of the restless main. 
And evermore to the flowery earth they chanti 

the mystic strain. 
By the winding streams they loved to stray, or 

far among forests green. 
And oft at gloaming's tranquil hour in lonesome 

raths were seen. 
Their words were of hope to the sons of men. of 

praise to God on high, — 
Their songs were of beauty that ne'er grows old. 

of virtue that ne'er shall die. 
O honor those olden, glorious bards — honor their 

deathless songs ! — 
IJut for them, mayhap, e'en hope had despaired 

in the night of our darksome wrongs I 

JAMES KEEGAN. 



WHAT IS THE GAIN? 

What is the gain. 
If one should run a noble race. 
And at the last, with weary pace. 
Win to the goal, and find his years 
A harvest field of waste anil tears. 
Of turmoil and of buried trust. 
Rich with dead hopes and bitter dust. 
And strife, and sneer, and ceaseless pain. 

What is the gain ? 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NO IV. 



249 



What is the gain, 
When, having reached a sunlit height. 
Through barren sweeps of gloomful night, 
Hoping to see beyond the crest 
Fair lands of beauty and of rest. 
There lies before, stretched far away 
Unto the confines of the day 
A desolate and shadeless plain. 

What is the gain ? 

What is the gain. 
To sail for months of cold and toil 
Across wide seas, where winds recoil, 
Only to gather strength and roar 
A louder challenge than before, 
And find, when through fogs thick and dun 
The rocky coast at last is won, 
No haven from the storm-vexed main. 

What is the gain ? 

What is the gain ? 
The race is won, we see the light. 
We conquer where the storm-winds fight; 
We show the way to those who wait 
With faint hearts by the walls of fate ; 
Our banners flutter in the van 
Of battles fought for thought and man. 
And ignorance and darkness wane. 

This is the gain. 

THOMAS S. COLLIER. 



WORTHINESS. 



Whatever lacks purpose is evil ; a pool without 

pebbles breeds slime ; 
Not any one step hath chance fashioned on the 

infinite stairway of time ; 
Nor ever came good without labor, in toil, or 

in science or art : 
It must be wrought out thro' the muscles — born 

out of the soul and the heart. 

Why plow in the stubble with plowshares ? — 

why winnow the chaff from the grain .' 
Ah, since all of His gifts must be toiled for, 

since truth is not born without pain ! 
He giveth not to the unworthy, the weak or the 

foolish in deeds ; 
Who giveth but chaff at the seed-time shall reap 

but a harvest of weeds. 



As the pyramid builded of vapor is blown by 
His whirlwinds to naught. 

So the song without truth is forgotten ; His 
poem to man is man's thought. 

Whatever is strong with a purpose, in humble- 
ness woven, soul-pure. 

Is known to the Master of Singers : He touch- 
eth it, saying "Endure!" 

CH.'^RLES J. O'MALI.EY. 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 
The surging sea of human life forever onward 

rolls. 
Bearing to the eternal shore each day its freight 

of souls ; 
But though our bark sails proudly on, pale Death 

sits at the prow. 
And few shall know we ever lived — a hundred 

years from now. 

Oh, mighty human brotherhood, why fiercely war 

and strive. 
While God's great world has ample space for 

everything alive .' 
Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are 

waiting for the plow 
Of progress, that should make them bloom a 

hundred years from now. 

Why should we toil so earnestly in life's short, 
narrow span. 

On golden stairs to climb so high above our fel- 
low man .' 

Why blindly at an earthly shrine our souls in 
homage bow } 

Our gods will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred 
years from now. 

Why prize so much the world's applause.' why 

dread so much its blame .' 
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ; 
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that 

dyes with shame the brow, 
Will be as long forgotten dreams a hundred years 

from now. 

Earth's empires rise and fall, O Time ! like break- 
ers on thy shore ; 

They rush upon thy rocks of doom, are seen, 
and seen no more ; 

The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's 
radiant brow. 

Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred 
years from now. 



250 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



hou, before wlioss sleeoless eyes the past and 
future stand 



They are there, and no lemiK-si can hide them ; 

They glow wHth accusing and shame. 
Tho" the years be all dead, they arc living, 
'Mid the silence they cry for forgiving, 

With direful acclaim. 



All open page, like babes we cling to Thy pro- 
tecting hand ; 
Change, sorrow, death, are naught to us if we \ 
may safely bow ' 

Beneath the shadow of Thv throne a hundred , On the wreck-plank of life is there pardon, 
years from now. I When joy is worn hollow in sin .' 

MARy A. McMULLlN. | When the heart sees no light in the sparkle. 
Nor gloom where the drowsy waves darkle 
0"er foeman and kin ? 



OASIS. 

Let them go by — the heats, the doubts, the strife ; 

I can sit here and care not for them now. 
Dreaming beside the glittering wave of life 

Once more — I know not how. 

There is a murmur in my heart, I hear 
Faint, oh so faint, some air I used to sing : 

It stirs my sense ; and odors dim and dear 
The meadow-breezes bring. 

Just this way did the quiet twilight fade 
Over the fields and happy homes of men. 

While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade. 
Long since — I know not when. 

EDWARD DOWDE.V. 



Then brush the world's mist from the mirror 

While life in our bosom is sweet. 
And turn, with a love of the purest. 
O'er pathways the fairest and surest. 
The trace of our feet. 

JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 



SPECULUM VITAE. 

Let us look in the glass for a moment. 

Let us brush off the mist from its face — 
The mirror of life that is broken 
When Death in our ears knells the token 
To crumble in space. 

We must fall whether praying or pining. 
Whether fearing or mocking the blow. 

Brush the mist from the mirror, then, trembling; 

The grave is no place for dissembling — 
There vaunting lies low. 

The eyes, as they glaze to earth's glory. 

Peer into that mirror of pain. 
Where the slain of our years lie all gory. 
Bent over by grim shadows hoary. 

Recording each stain. 

Not a blot nor a blemish escapes them. 
The sins of the lone and the crowd, 
Ihe crime where we pandered or paltered, 
The dark things that lips never faltered. 
There crv out aloud. 



THE HYMN OF PRINCES. 

Lord, we have given, in Thy Name, 
The peaceful villages to llame ; 
Of all the dwellers we've bereft, — 
No trace of hearth, of roof-tree left ; 
Beneath our war-steed's iron tread 
The germ of future life is dead ; 
We have swept o'er it like a blight : — 
To Thee the praise, O God of Right! 

We have let loose the demon-chained 

In bestial hearts, that unrestrained. 

Infernal revel it may hold. 

And feast on villanies untold. 

With ravening drunkenness possessed. 

And mercy banished from each breast ; 

All war's atrocities above : — 

To Thee the praise, O God of Lvjel 

Some hours ago on yonder plain 
There stooti six hundred thousand men. 
Made in Thine image, strong and rife 
With hope, and energy, and life. — 
And none but had some prized one, dear. 
Grief-stricken, wild with anxious fear ; 
A third of them we have made ghosts : — 
To Thee the praise, O Lord of Hosts / 

The sacred temples we've not spared. 
For they the broad destaiction shared. 
The annals of time-honored lore. 
Lost to the world, are now no more. 



THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 



251 



What reck we if the holy fane 
And learning's dome are mourned in vain ? 
Our work these landmarks to efface: — 
To Thee the praise, O Lord of Grace ! 

Secure behind a wall of steel, 

To watch the yielding columns reel. 

While round them sulphurous clouds arise. 

Foul incense wafting to the skies, 

From our home-manufactured hell. 

Is royal pastime we like well. 

As momently death's ranks increase : — 

To thee the praise, O God of Peace .' 

Thus shall it be while human kind. 

Madly perverse, or wholly blind. 

Will so complacently be led 

At our command their blood to shed. 

For lust of conquest, or the sly. 

Deceptive diplomatic lie ; 

To us the gain, to them the ruth :- 

To Thee the praise, O God of Truth I 

JOHN BROUGHAM. 



PEACE AND WAR. 

Peace everlastingly with those 

Who still the perfect truth disclose. 

And, in all places, nobly dare 

The mask from speciousness to tear ; 

Who not by words, but actions, show 

The attributes of heaven below ; 

Who never with presumption scan 

The failings of their fellow-man, 

But those who've fallen in evil ways 

By gentle admonition raise. 

And thus in deed true homage give 

To Him who died that we might live ; — 

Peace everlastingly with those 

Who still the perfect truth disclose. 

War to the uttermost with all 

Who hold the human mind in thrall ; 

Be they bold villains who appear 

With bolder faces, scorning fear, — 

Who in their mastery of evil, 

Were there a chance, would cheat the devil ; 

Or be they fat " professors," sleek, 

Soft, placid-voiced, and seeming meek, — 

Their aspirations worldly greed. 

And selfishness their only creed, — ■ 



Who in deceit so long have trod. 

They fain would hope to cheat their God ;- 

War to the uttermost with all 

Who hold the mind of man in thrall ! 

JOHN BROUGHAM. 



THE PRIZE-FIGHT. 

1. 
Hammer and tongs ! What have we here .'' 
Let us approach, but not too near. 
Two men standing breast to breast. 
Head erect and arching chest ; 
Shoulders square and hands hard clenched. 
.\nd both their faces a trifle blenched • 
Their lips are set in a smile so grim. 
And sturdily set each muscular limb. 
Round them circles a ring of rope. 
Over them hangs the heaven's blue cope. 
Why do they glare at each other so } 
What ! you really then don't know } 
This is a prize-fight, gentle sir ! 
This is what makes the papers stir. 
Talk of your ocean telegraph ! 
'Tisn't so great an event by half, 
As when two young men, lusty and tall, 

With nothing between them of hate or wro; 
Come together to batter and maul, 
Come to fight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs. 

n. 

Round about is a bestial crowd. 

Heavily jawed and beetle-browed ; 

Concave faces trampled in. 

As if with the iron hoof of sin , 

Blasphemies dripping from their lips. 

Pistols bulging behind their hips, 

Hands accustomed to deal the cards, 

Or strike with the cowardly knuckle-guards. 

Who are these rufiianly fellows, you say, 

I That taint the breath of this autumn day.> 
These are " the Fancy," gentle sir. 

I The Fancy.' What are they to her ? 

I O, 'tis their fancy to look at a fight. 
To see men struggle, and gouge, and bite. 

I Bloody noses and bunged-up eyes, — 
These are the things the Fancy prize ; 
And so they get men, lusty and tall. 

With nothing between them of hate or wro: 
To come together to batter and maul. 
To come and fight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 



252 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



III. 



Grandly the autumn forests shine. 
Red as the gold in an Indian mine ! 
A dreamy mist, a vapory smoke, 
Hangs round the patches of evergreen oak. 
Over the broad lake shines the sun, — 
The lake that Perry battled upon.— 
Striking the upland fields of maize 
That glow through the soft October haze. 
Nature is tracing with languid hand 
Lessons of peace over lake and land ; 
Ay I yet this is the tranquil spot 
Chosen by bully, assassin and sot 
To pit two young men, lusty and tall. 

With nothing between them of hate or wrongs. 
One with the other, to batter and maul. 
To tussle and tight till one shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs ! 

IV. 
Their faces are rich with a healthy hue. 
Their eyes are clear, and bright, and blue ; 
Every muscle is clean and fine, 
And their blood is pure as the purest wine. 
It is a pleasure their limbs to scan,— 
Splendid types of the animal man. 
Splendid types of that human grace. 
The noblest that Cod has willed to trace, 
Brought to this by science and art ; 
Trained, and nourished, and kept apart; 
Cunningly fed on the wholesomest food. 
Carefully watched in every mood : 
Brought to this state, so noble and proud, 
To savagely tussle before a crowd. — 
To dim the light of the eyes so clear. 
To mash the face to a bloody smear. 
To maim, deface, and kill, if they can, 
The glory of all creation, — Man ! 
This is the task of those, lusty and tall. 
With nothing between them of hate or 
wrongs, — 
To bruise and wrestle, and batter and maul, 
And fight till one or the other shall fall.- 
Hammer and tongs I 



With feet firm planted upon the sand. 
Face to face at " the scratch " they stand. 
Feinting first — a blow — a guard ! 
Then some hitting, heavy and hard. 
The round fist falls with a horrible thud ; 
Wherever it falls comes a spout of blood ! 
Blow after blow, fall after fall, 
For twi'iity minutes they tussle and maul. 



The lips of the one are a gory gash, 
The other's are knocked to eternal smash ! 
The bold bright eyes are bloody and dim. 
And, staggering, shivers each stalwart limb. 
Faces glow with stupid wrath, 
Hard breaths breathed through a bloody froth ; 
Blind and faint they rain their blows 
On checks like jelly, and shapeless nose ; 
While concave faces around the rope 
Darken with panic, or light with hope. 
Till one fierce brute, with a terrible blow. 
Lays the other poor animal low. 
Are these the forms so noble and proud. 
That, king-like, towered above the crowd ? 
Where are the faces so healthy and fresh ? 
There ! — those illegible masses of flesh. 
Thus we see men lusty and tall, wrongs 

Who, with nothing between them of hate o 
Will bruise, and batter, and tussle and maul. 
And fight till one or the other shall fall, — 
Hammer and tongs, 

VI. 
Trainers, backers, and betters all, — 
Who teach young men to tussle and maul. 
And spend their muscle, and blood and life. 
Given for good, in a loathsome strife, — 
I know what the Devil will do for you. 
You pistoling, bullying, cowardly crew ! 
He'll light up his furnaces red and blue. 
And treat you all to a roast and a stew ; 
O, he'll do you up, and he'll do you brown. 

On pitchforks cleft into mighty prongs. 

While chuckling fiends your agonies crown, 

By stirring you up and keeping you down, 

Hammer and tongs ! 

^■ITz-TA^rES o'brif.x. 



QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. 

I Fair she stood— God's queenly creature ! 

Wondrous joy was in her face ; 
Of her ladies none in stature 

Like to her, and none in grace. 
On the church-roof stood they round her, 

Cloth of gold was her attire ; 
They in jeweled circle wound her ;- 

Beside her Ely's king, her sire. 

Far and near the green fields glittered. 

Like to poppy-beds in spring. 
Gay with companies loose-scattered. 

Seated each in seemly ring. 



THE GOLDEN BRIDGE. 



253 



Under banners red or yellow : 

There all day the feast they kept, 
From chill dawn and noontide mellow 

Till the hill-shades eastward crept. 

On a white steed at the gateway 

Margaret's husband, Cahvagh, sate ; 
Guest on guest, approaching, straightway 

Welcomed he with love and state. 
Each passed on with largess laden, 

Chosen gifts of thought and work, 
Now the red cloak of the maiden. 

Now the minstrel's golden torque. 

On the wind the tapestries shifted ; 

From the blue hills rang the horn ; 
Slowly toward the sunset drifted 

Choral song and shout breeze-borne. 
Like a sea the crowds unresting 

Murmured round the gray church-tower; 
Many a prayer, amid the feasting, 

For Margaret's mother rose that hour. 

On the church-roof kern and noble 

At her bright face looked half dazed ; 
Naught was hers of shame or trouble ; — 

On the crowds far off she gazed : 
Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending. 

Her hands in prayer she flung apart ; 
Unconsciously her arms e.xtending. 

She blessed her people in her heart. 

Thus a Gaelic queen and nation 

At Imayn till set of sun 
Kept with feast the Annunciation, 

Fourteen hundred fifty-onq. 
Time it was of solace tender ; — 

'Twas a brave time, strong yet fair ! 
Blessing, O ye angels, send her 

From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire ! 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



I do repent me of that early sin, 
! The folly of my inconsiderate days ; 
' And now, however late, would fain beg^n 
I To burn thee incense, and to hymn thy praise. 

If all who truly worship thee may win, 
' I too would offer thee a laureate's lays. — 

Haply for ears tuned to sweet chimes unfit, 
j And yet not worse than have for gold been writ. 

Most subtle casuist ! pure, and calm, and sweet. 
Whose sweet persuasion, eloquent, tho' dumb. 

Ever converted men the most discreet, 
Or, if it failed, failed only in the sum,— 

Wheie shall we find thee rank and title meet. 
High priestess of the kingdom not to come. 

Since even now thy rule and reign are seen 

Rock of all faiths, of every realm the queen ? 

RICHARD HENKY WILDE 



THE GOLDEN BRIDGE. 

Let him listen, whoso would know. 
Concerning the wisdom of King Tee Pah. 

Fair is Pekin, with round it rolled 

Wave on wave of its river of gold ; 

They gird its walls with their ninefold twine. 

And the bridges that cross them are ninety and 

nine ; 
And as soon as the wind of morning blows. 
And the gray in the East takes a fleck of rose. 
Upon each bridge 'gins the shuffle and beat 
Of hundreds of hoofs and thousands of feet ; 
And all day long there is dust and din, 
.\nd the coolie elbows the mandarin, 
.•\nd gibe is given, and oath and blow, — 
'Twas thus in the time of King Tee Poh. 

It grieved the King that it should be so; 
Then out of his wisdom spoke King Tee Poh. 



HYMN TO GOLD. 

In my hot youth I did account thee base, 

Forsware thy worship, and renounced thy name 
Defied thy touch, aye, and blasphemed thy face 

For empty pleasure and still emptier fame : 
What brought they .' Disappointment and Dis- 
grace, 
Imputed faults and genius, pride and shame, — 
False friends, that cooled 
flew 



" Build me a hundredth bridge, the best. 
Higher and wider than all the rest. 
With posts of teak, and cedarn rails. 
And planks of sandal, \vith silver nails ; 
Gild it and paint it vermilion red. 
And over it place the dragon's head ; 
And be it proclaimed to high and low. 
That over this fortunate bridge shall go 
Passenger none that doth not throw 
and summer love, that j Golden toll to the river below ; 

And when the piece of gold is cast. 



With the first wintry withering wind that blew. ! Thrice let the trumpet sound a blast. 



254 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



And the mandarin write, with respectful look. 
The passenger's name in a silken book. 
So that I, the King, may have in hand 
The list of the wealthiest in my land." 

Straightway the bridge ■was builded so. 
As had spoken the wisdom of King Tee Poh. 

And every day from dawn till dark. 

They who watched the fortunate arch could mark. 

Like a cloud of midges, that glow and gleam, 

The gold toll cast to the hurrj-ing stream ; 

And all day the trumpet sounded loud. 

And the mandarin of the guard kowtowed. 

And he wrote the name, with respectful look, 

Of the passenger high in his silken book • 

And all the while grew the renown 

Of the fortunate arch in Pekin town. 

Till of the wealthiest it was told, 

'• He spends his day on the bridge of gold." 

And when a month and a day were spent. 
The King Tee Poh for his treasurer sent. 
" Go to the bridge," said he, " and look 
At the list of names in the silken book. 
And of all that are written, small or great, 
Confiscate to me the estate : 
As the sage Confucius well doth show, 
A wealthy fool is the State's worst foe." 

And the treasurer whispered, bending low, 
"Great is the wisdom of King Tee Poh." 
GEORGE T. LANIG.A.N. 



THE RIVAL SINGERS. 
Two marvellous singers of old had the city of 

Florence,— 
She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the 

beautiful,- - 
Who sang thro' bitterest envy their exquisite 

music. 
Each for o'ercoming the other, as fierce as the 

seraphs 
At the dread battle pre-mundane, together down- 
wrestling. 
And once when the younger, surpassing the best 

at a festival. 
Thrilled the impetuous people, O. singing so 

rarely ! 
That upon their shoulders they raised him, and 

carried him straightway 
Over the threshold, 'mid ringing of belfries, and 

shouting. 



Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like 

morning 
t (For he was Saxon in blood) that made more 

resplendent 
The gold of his hair for an aureole round and 

above him. 
Seeing which, called his adorers aloud, thanking 

Heaven 
That sent down an angel to sing for them, taking 

their homage ; — 
While this came to pass in the city, one marked 

it, and harbored 
A purpose which followed endlessly on, like his 

shadow. 
Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clamber- 
i ing stealthily 

I Slips by the stones to an opening, came the 



And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the 

Saxon hair dabbled 
With red. and the brave voice smitten to death 

in his bosom. 
Now this was the end of the hate, and the striv- 
ing and singing ; 
But the Italian through Florence, his city familiar. 
Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime and 

the passion, 
Winning honor and guerdon in peaceful and 

prosperous decades. 
Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the cheers 

and the clanging. 
Carissima .' what ? And you wonder the world 

did not loathe him .' 
Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and died 

very famous. 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEV. 



A PORTRAIT. 

Tell me. ye prim adepts in Scandal's school. 
Who rail by precept and detract by rule. 
Lives there no character so tried, so known. 
So decked with grace, and so unlike your own, 
That even you assist her fame to raise, 
.Approve by envy, and by silence praise ! 
.\ttend !— a model shall attract your view : 
Daughters of calumny. 1 summon you ! 
You shall decide if this a portrait prove. 
Or fond creation of the Muse and Love ; — 
Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage. 
Ye matron censors of this childish age, 
Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare 
A fixed antipathy to young and fair ; 



MAURICE DE GUERIN. 



255 



By cunning cautious, or by nature cold. 
In maiden madness virulently bold ! 
Attend, all ye who boast — or old or young — 
The living libel of a slanderous tongue ! 
So shall my theme as far contrasted be 
As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny. 

Adorning fashion, unadorned by dress. 
Simple from taste, and not from carelessness ; 
Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild. 
Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild : 
No state has Amoret, no studied mien ; 
She frowns no goddess and she moves no queen. 
The softer charm that in her manner lies 
Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise ; 
It justly suits th' expression of her face, — 
'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace ! 
On her pure cheek the native hue is such. 
That, formed by heaven to be admired so much. 
The hand divine, with a less partial care. 
Might well have fi.xed a fainter crimson there. 
And bade the gentle inmate of her breast — 
Inshrined Modesty ! — supply the rest. 
But who the peril of her lips shall paint .' 
Strip them of smiles— still, still all words are faint I 
But moving Love himself appears to teach 
Their action, tho' denied to rule her speech. 
And thou who seest her speak and dost not hear. 
Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear ; 
Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretense 
To judge of what she says, and swear 'tis sense ; 
Clothed with such grace, with such expression 

fraught. 
They move in meaning, and they pause in thought ! 
But dost thou farther watch, with charmed sur- 
The mild irresolution of her eyes. [prise, 

Curious to mark how frequent they repose 
In brief eclipse and momentary close. 
Ah ! seest thou not an ambushed Cupid there, 
Too timorous of his charge, with jealous care 
A'eils and unveils those beams of heavenly light, 
Too full, too fatal else for mortal sight? 
What tho' her peaceful breast should ne'er allow 
Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow. 
By Love. I swear, and by his gentle wiles, 
More fatal still the mercy of her smiles ! 
Thus lovely, thus adorned, possessing all 
Of bright or fair that can to woman fall. 
The height of vanity might well be thought 
Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault. 

RICHARD BRINSLEV SHERIDAN. 

ith the Comedy 



TO AN URN. 

Mute urn, whose heart is empty now 

Of the dear ashes of a heart ! 
Who bearest on thy marble brow 

Naught but a name, and cry of grief. 

Memorial sad as brief ; 
Hast thou an echo, like the ocean shell, 
Thy vague dim history to tell. 

Or in faint mystic murmurs to impart 
That of the soul invisible 

Whose form is flown ? 
A ruin amid ruins still thou art, 
Silent and alone. 

Was it a hero whose proud dust 

Was once thy treasure, mournful urn } 

A fool of battle's gloried lust. 

Death's puppet in a world where death 
Allows of life so brief a breath } 

Or maiden fair, whose gentle breast 

Love filled, and sorrow laid at rest } 

Or poet brain whose thoughts would burn 

In reverie, like the golden west ? 

Or wise, bright-thoughted sage ? 
Or little child from tearful mother torn } 
Love's, life's last heritage. 

Yon star-world shining o'er the sea, 

O urn. upon thy silent form, 
Tho' bright, may be a grave like thee ; 

The symbol of a vanished past 

In yonder unimagined vast. 
Where suns and spheres, the bright abodes 
Of spirits ranging up to gods 

Awhile in life's eternal storm 
Take shape and die. Yon senseless star 
Ere yet thro' future fires it pass, 

Ere yet from ruin 'tis re-born. 
Bears its dim epitaph afar 
Like thine — " Alas ! " 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



MAURICE DE GUERIN. 

The old wine filled him. and he saw. with eyes 
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair 
Unseen by others ; to him maidenhair 
And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise 
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise 
Brought charmed thoughts ; and in earth every- 
where 
He, like sad Jacques, found unheard music rare 
As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. 



:^o 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he, 

He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed. 

Till earth and heaven met within his breast : 

As if Theocritus in Sicily 

Had come upon the Figure crucified 

And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. 

MAURICE F. EGAN. 



FRA ANGELICO, 

Art is true art when art to God is true. 
And only then. To copy Nature's work 
Without the chains that run the whole world 

through 
("lives us the eye without the lights that lurk 
In its clear depths: no soul, no truth is there. 
Oh praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush ! 
Oh love your Titian and his carnal air ! 
Give me the trilling of a pure toned thrush. 
And take your crimson parrots. Artist— saint ! 
Oh Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed 
In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint ; [sighed. 
You showed to us pure joys for which you 
Your heart was in your work, you never feigned : 
You left us here the Paradise you gained ! 

M.\UR1CE 1-. EGAN. 



Then came the day when over all the walls 
The Romans surged, and Death laughed loud 
and high. 

And there was wailing in the palace halls. 
And sounds of lamentations in the sky. 

Tom from its place, it lay within the hand 
Of Probus, whose keen sword had rent a way. 

With rapid blow.s amid the priestly band 
Whose piteous prayers moaned through that 
dreadful day. 

And there, beside the wall, he stopped to gaze 

Upon the fortune that would give his life 
I The home and rest that come with bounteous 
I days, 

I And bring reward for toil and warlike strife. 

I 
There was no cloud in all heaven's lustrous blue. 

Yet suddenly a red flash cleft the air. 
And the dark shadow held a deeper hue— 

A dead man, with an empty hand, lay there. 

THOMAS S. COLLIER. 



AKERATOS. 



SACRILEGE. 



Beside the wall, and near the massive gate 
Of the great temple in Jerusalem, 

The legionary, Probus. stood elate, 
His eager clasp circling a royal gem. 

It was an offering made by some dead king 
Unto the great Jehovah, when the sword 

Amid his foes had mown a ghastly ring. 
Helped by the dreaded angel of the Lord. 

There, on his rival's crest, among the slain, 
Thro' the red harvest it had clearly shone 

Lighting the grimness of the sanguine plain 
With splendors that had glorified a throne. 

Above the altar of Gods sacred place, 
A watchful star, it lit the passing years. 

With radiance falling on each suppliant's face. 
Gleaming alike in love's and sorrow's tears. 

Till swept the war-tide thro' the sunlit vales 
Leading from Jordan, and the western sea 

And the fierce hosts of Titus filled the gales 
With jubilant shouts and songs of victory. 



To Argos, after Troia fell, there came, 
I Seeking for alms and ease, one sunny day, 
A soldier, battle-scarred and old and gray — 
Akeratos his name. 

He would not beg without amends for alms ; 
So with a lyre the passers-by he stopped. 
Hoping thereby to see some silver dropped 
From giver's willing palms. 

In early days his skill was well maintained ; 
But rough campaigns had robbed him of his 

power ; 
And so he stood there twanging, hour on hour. 
Without one lepton gained. 

At length, all wearied, hungered and athirst. 
He ceased, and leaned against a pillar there. 
And thought himself, so utter his despair. 
Forsaken and accurst. 

Then came a stranger where he leaned, and 
said — 
" Why not play on, old man, and strive to please 
The passing crowd? You who won victories. 
Might now perchance win bread." 



PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 



257 



Akeratos looked up. His eyes were filled 
With weakling tears; again he bowed his head- 
That once proud soldier — and he humbly said— 
" I am no longer skilled." 

" Then," said the stranger in a pleasant way, 
" Why not to me a thing so useless hire } 
Here's a didrachmon ; give me now the lyre ; 
For one hour let me play." 

The soldier smiled. "My lord," he said, "the sum 
'T would buy three lyres like this of mine, may- 
hap." 
" It is a bargain then. Hold out your cap : 
Be motionless and dumb." 



A purple vapor seemed to fill the place ; 
Fragrance and light and music in the air — 
Each man majestic and each woman fair — 
One, dignity ; one, grace ; 

Till, in their joy, before that soldier old, 
Not coins alone they cast, but silver bands, 
And rings and bracelets, gems from foreign 
And ornaments of gold ; [lands. 

And when the heap had to its utmost grown, 
Making the soldier rich in all men's sight. 
Around the singer's form a blaze of light 
In dazzling glory shone. 



The stranger took the lyre and swept the chords. 
And through the air a startling prelude rang ; 
Then, with a clear and stirring voice, he sang — 
Voice like the clang of swords — 

How Hektor perished, slain by Achilleus ; 
How Herakles fair Hippolute slew ; 
How Zeus the mighty Titans overthrew — 
The sire-dethroning Zeus ; 

The rush of chariots and the clash of blades ; 
O'er beaten earth the ring of iron hoofs ; 
The crackling roar of flames from burning roofs; 
The screams of frighted maids ; 

The curses of the priests of plundered fanes ; 
The dying groan upon the bloody field 
Of some stout warrior, pillowed on his shield. 
Life ebbing through his veins. 

And as he sang, the people stopped to hear. 
And crowds from every quarter gathered round. 
Breathless and eager, swallowing every sound 
With rapt, attentive ear : 

And when the song was o'er the people filled 
The soldier's cap with golden coins, and cried, 
" O singer ! silver-tongued and fiery-eyed. 
Whose tones our souls have thrilled — 

" Singer, whose voice from sirens on the shore 
Has sure been borrowed, and whose fingers 

rain 
Such music on the strings, oh ! sing again— 
Sing us a song once more !" 

And once again that wondrous voice was heard : 
This time it sang not of affairs of arms. 
But of the sea-foam's daughter and her charms. 
Till all men's hearts were stirred. 



The men of Argos stood in hushed surprise. 
As there the god of poetry and song, 
Phoibos ApoUon, from the awe-struck throng 
Ascended to the skies. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 



PERICLES AND ASPASIA. 

This was the ruler of the land 
When Athens was the land of fame ; 

This was the light that led the band 
When each was like a living flame ; 

The center of earth's noblest ring,^ 

Of more than men the more than king. 

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear, 
His sovereignty was held or won : 

Feared, but alone as freemen fear. 
Loved, but as freemen love alone. 

He waved the scepter o'er his kind 

By nature's first great title— Mind ! 

Resistless words were on his tongue : 
Then eloquence first flashed below ; 

Full armed to life the portent sprung — 
Minerva from the Thunderer's brow ! 

And his the sole, the sacred hand 

That shook her sgis o'er the land. 

And throned immortal by his side 
A woman sits with eye sublime, — 

Aspasia, all his spirit's bride ; 

But if their solemn love were crime. 

Pity the Beauty and the Sage — 

The crime was in their darkened age. 



258 



POEMS OF REl- LECTION. 



He perished, but his wreath was won — 
He perished in his height of fame ; 

Then sunk the cloud on Athens' sun, 
Yet still she conquered in his name. 

Filled with his soul, she could not die ; 

Her conquest was posterity. 

GEORGE CROLV. 



TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 
Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again! 
1 hold to you the hands you first beheld, 
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 
A spirit in your echoes answer me. 
And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
Again ! O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
How huge you are ! how mighty and how free ! 
How do you look, for all your bared brows. 
More gorgeously majestical than kings 
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine ! 
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose 

smile 
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms, 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine, whose subject never kneels 
In mockery, because it is your boast 
To keep him free ! ye guards of liberty, 
I'm with you once again ! — I call to you 
With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you 
To show they still are free ! I rush to you 
As though 1 could embrace you ! 

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 



VIRGINIUS IN THE FORUM. 

iyirgin ia is cia imed as the da ugh tfro/a slave. ) 

Virgtnius.—'\\x\, I must speak, or else go mad ! 
And if I do go mad, what will then hold me 
From speaking.' Were't not better, brother, 

think you. 
To speak and not go mad, than to go mad 
And then to speak.' 



Appius. — Your answer, now, Virginius ? 
Virginius. — Here it is ! 
Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 
'Tis not with men. as shrubs and trees, that by 
The shoot you know the rank and order of 
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would 
look 



For such a shoot .' My witnesses are these — 
The relatives and friends of Numltoria, 
Who saw her, ere \'irginia's birth, sustain 
The burden which a mother bears, nor feels 
The weight, with longuig for the sight of it ! 
Here are the ears that listened to her sighs 
In nature's hour of labor, which subsides 
In the embrace of joy !-the hands, that when 
The day first looked upon the infant's face. 
And never looked so pleased, helped her up to it. 
And thanked the gods for her, and prayed them 

send 
Blessing on blessing on her. Here the eyes 
' That saw her lying at the generous 
j And sympathetic fount, that at her cry 
I Sent forth a stream of living liquid pearl 
' To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie 
I Is most abortive, then, that takes the Hower — 
The very flower our bed connubial grew— 
To prove its barrenness ! Spe.ik for me. friends. 
Have I not spoke the truth ? 

JAMES SHERIDAN' KNOWLES. 



THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL. 
Far upon the sunny mountain, laurel groves were 

growing. 
Silently adown the river came a hot youth rowing; 
Looking up afar he spied 
The green groves on the mountain side- 
Quoth the youth, and fondly sighed,— 
"I'll pluck your plumes and sail anon; fair the 
wind is blowing !" 

Landing, then, he took his way to where the 

groves were growing ; 
Far he travel'd, all the morn, from the calm 
stream flowing ; 
In the sultry June noontide. 
He reach'd the groves he had espied. 
And sat down on the mountain side ; 
Sing the snowy, plumy laurels, laurels gaily 
blowing ! 

Sat and slept within the groves of laurels bright 

and blowing— 
Oh I the deadly laurel tree, with flowering poison 
glowing ! 
Down they fell on lip and brain, 
Oh ! that odorous, deadly rain I 
He never shall return again 
To his boat, upon the stream afar, so calm and 
gently flowing ! 

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



O MIGHTY FAME. 259 


A DESCANT OF FAME. 


And of the sweet perfume it spilled 




He drank to drunkenness, and flung 


Once in a dream I saw a man, 


His long hair back, and laughed and sung, 


With haggard face and tangled hair. 


And clapped his hands as children do 


And eyes that nursed as wild a care 


At fairy tales they listen to. 


As gaunt starvation ever can ; 


While from his flying quill there dripped 


And in his hand he held a wand 


Such u.usic on his manuscript 


Whose magic touch gave life and thought 


That he who listens to the words 


Unto a face his fancy wrought. 


May close his eyes and dream the birds 


And robed with coloring so grand 


Are twittering on every hand 


It seemed the reflex of some child 


A language he can understand. 


Of heaven, fair and undefiled— 


He journeyed on through life, unknown. 


A star of purity and love- 


Without one friend to call his own. 


To woo him into worlds above. 


He tired. No kindly hand to press 


And as I gazed, with dazzled eyes. 


The cooling touch of tenderness 


A gleaming smile lit up his lips 


Upon his burning brow, nor lift 


As his bright soul from its eclipse 


To his parched lips God's freest gift — 


Went flashing into Paradise ; 


No sympathetic sob, or sigh 


Then tardy Fame came through the door. 


Of trembling lips— no sorrowing eye 


And found a picture— nothing more. 


Looked out through tears to see him die. 




And fame her greenest laurels brought 


And once I saw a man, alone 


To crown a head that heeded not. 


In abject poverty, with hand 




Uplifted o'er a block of stone. 


And this is fame ! A thing, indeed, • 


That took a shape at his command 


That only comes when least the need 


And smiled upon him, fair and good — 


The wisest minds of every age 


A perfect work of womanhood. 


The book of life from page to page 


Save that the eyes might never weep. 


Have searched in vain ; each lesson conned 


Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep. 


Will promise it the page beyond— 


Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist. 


Until the last, when dusk of night 


Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. 


Falls over it, and reason's light 


And as in awe I gazed on her. 


Is smothered by that unknown friend 


I saw the sculptor's chisel fall— 


Who signs his iioin deplume The End. 


I saw him sink, without a moan. 


JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY. 


Sink lifeless at the feet of stone. 




And lie there like a worshipper. 




Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, 




And found a statue— that was all. 


MIGHTY FAME. 


And once I saw a man who drew 


mighty fame ! 


A gloom about him like a cloak, 


Thou for whom Cssar restless fought. 


And wandered aimlessly. The few 


And Regulus his god-like suffering sought ; 


Who spoke of him at all but spoke 


What can the sense of mortals tame. 


Disparagingly of a mind 


And nature's deepest murmurings hush. 


The Fates had faultlessly designed : 


That thus on death they rush ? 


Too indolent for modern times— 


What horror thus, and anguish they control, _ 


Too fanciful, and full of whims 


Lulled by thy airy power which lifts the daring 


For talking to himself in rhymes. 


soul ? 


And scrawling never-heard-of hymns. 




The idle life to which he clung 


The female spirit still, 


Was worthless as the songs he sung ! 


And timorous of ill. 


I saw him, in my vision, filled 


In softest climes, by thy almighty will. 


With rapture o'er a spray of bloom 


Dauntless can mount the funeral pyre, 


The wind threw in his lonely room ; 


And by a husband's side expire. 



26o 



POEMS OF REFLECTION, 



No unbecoming human fear 

The exalted sacrifice delays. 
In youth and beauty's flowering year. 

Serene she mingles with the blaze. 

The Indian, on the burning iron bound. 
By busy tortures compassed round. 

Beholds thee, and is pleased. 

With towering frenzy seized ; 
Tells them they know not how to kill. 
Demands a torment fit for man to feel, 
And dictates some new pang, some more enven- 
omed wound. 

The halls of Odin rang.— 

Amidst the barbarous clang 

Of boastful chiefs and dire alarms, 

The warrior hears thy magic cry. 
Thundering, — " To arins ! to arms ! " 

Struck by the sound, behold him fly 
O'er the steep mountain's icy bar. 

And drive before him Shout and Pain, 
And Slaughter mad, the dogs of war; 

Then, of his bootless trophies vain. 
Back to the halls of Death return, [earn. 

And brood upon the name which his wide ruins 

HENRY FLOOD. 
—From a ^^ Pindaric Ode to Fatne.^'' 



She has scourged the weak and the lowly 

And the just with an iron rod ; 
She is drunk with the blood of the holy — 

She shall drink of the wrath of God ! 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



ENGLAND. 



Her robes are of purple and scarlet. 
And the kings have bent their knees 

To the gemmed and jewelled harlot 
Who sitteth on many seas. 

They have drunk the abominations 

Of her golden cup of shame ; 
She has drugged and debauched the nations 

With the mystery of lier name. 

Her merchants have gathered riches 
By the power of her wantonness. 

And her usurers are as leeches 
On the world's supreme distress. 

She has .scoured the seas as a spoiler ; 

Her mart is a robber's den. 
With the wrested toil of the toiler. 

And the mortgaged souls of men. 

Her crimson flag is flying. 

Where the East and the West are one; 
Her drums while the day is dying 

Salute the rising sun. 



WHAT TWO SAW. 

I heard thunder of drums, and the trumpet's blast. 
And 1 saw red banners that waved on the air, 
.And I heard the shouts of those fighting there ; 
I saw tires blaze, saw the tents o'ercast. 
Saw cannon front cannon, deep, deadly and vast, 
Heard the conqueror's shout, the cries of despair. 
Of falling and wounded, who died with the glare 
Of flame on their features, distraught and aghast. 
You stood beside me, but what did you see .' 
No field of battle, but one sown with corn, 
Yellow corn, which in time man's bread should be; 
You heard not the cry of the hope forlorn. 
You heard not the feet of the hosts that flee ; 
But my soul at your feet lay dead, down borne. 

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTO.S'. 



THE DEAD YEAR. 

Yet another chief is carried 
From life's battle on his spears, 

To the great \'alhalla cloisters 
Of the ever-living years. 

Yet another year— the mummy 

Of a warlike giant vast — 
Is niched within the pyramid 

Of the ever-growing past. 

Years roll through the palm of .Ages 
As the dropping rosary speeds 

Through the cold and passive fingers 
Of a hermit at his beads. 

One year falls and ends its penance. 

One arises with its needs. 
And 'tis ever thus prays Nature, 

Only telling years for beads. 

Years, like acorns from the branches 

Of the giant Oak of Time, 
Fill the earth with healthy seedlings 

For a future more sublime. 

JOHN SAVAGE. 



CHRISTMAS IN A LIGHT-HOUSE. 



261 



A VISION. 
Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone 
With no green weight of laurels round his head, 
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, 
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan 
For sins no bleating victim can atone, 
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. 
Girt was he in a garment black and red. 
And at his feet I marked a broken stone 
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. 
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame 
I cried to Beatrice, " Who are these ? " 
And she made answer, knowing well each name, 
" ^schylos first, the second Sophokles, 
And last (wide stream of tears !) Euripides." 

OSCAR WILDE. 



THE COUNTERSIGN. 

Alas ! the weary hours pass slow. 

The night is very dark and still, 
And in the marshes far below 

I hear the bearded whippoorwill. 
I scarce can see a yard ahead. 

My ears are strained to catch each sound ; 
I hear the leaves about me shed. 

And the springs bubbling through the ground 

Along the beaten path I pace. 

Where white rags mark my sentry's track ; 
In formless shrubs I seem to trace 

The foeman's form with bending back. 
I think I see him crouching low, 

I stop and list — I stoop and peer — 
Until the neighboring hillocks grow 

To groups of soldiers far and near. 

With ready piece I wait and watch. 

Until my eyes, familiar grown. 
Detect each harmless earthen notch. 

And turn guerrillas into stone. 
And then amid the lonely gloom. 

Beneath the weird old tulip-trees, 
My silent marches I resume. 

And think on other times than these. 

Sweet visions through the silent night ! 

The deep bay-windows fringed with vine. 
The room within, in softened light, 

The tender, milk-white hand in mine ; 
The timid pressure, and the pause 

That ofttimes overcame our speech, — 
That time when by mysterious laws 

We each felt all in all to each. 



And then that bitter, bitter day. 

When came the tinal hour to part. 
When, clad in soldier's honest gray, 

I pressed her weeping to my heart. 
Too proud of me to bid me stay. 

Too fond of me to let me go, — 
I had to tear myself away. 

And left her stolid in her woe. 

So comes the dream— so fleets the night — 

When distant in the darksome glen. 
Approaching up the sombre height, 

I hear the solid march of men ; 
Till over stubble, over sward. 

And fields where gleams the golden sheaf, 
I see the lantern of the guard 

Advancing with the night relief. 

" Halt ! who goes there .' " my challenge cry : 

It rings along the watchful line. 
" Relief ! " I hear a voice reply. 

" Advance, and give the countersign ! " 
With bayonet at the charge, 1 wait, 

The corporal gives the mystic spell ; 
With arms at port I charge my mate. 

And onward pass, and all is well. 

But in the tent that night awake, 
1 I think, if in the fray I fall. 
Can I the mystic answer make 

When the angelic sentries call .' 
And pray that heaven may so ordain. 
That when I near the camp divine, 
I VVhate'er my travail or my pain, 
I yet may have the countersign. 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



CHRISTMAS IN A LIGHT-HOUSE. 

Darkly the drear December day 

Hung on the dripping light-house shrouds, 
And up my lonely tower the spray 

Leaped madly at the clouds ; 
And eastward with the racing tide 

There drove a living, roving sail. 
Which thro' her steersman hoarse replied 

Unto my friendly hail. 

The tantalizing rover passed 

(As passed another long ago). 
And idly by the signal-mast 

I watched the ocean-strow : 



262 



POEMS Of REFLECTIO.W 



Wild sea-wracks toiling ceaselessly 

Around my insulated rock : 
The sleepers of the mystic sea. 

Awakened by the shock. 

Sea-shreds come swarming up my wall, 

Mad relics of destractive things, 
That with the white spray rise and fall 

In wild meanderings; 
And from amid the lambent heaps 

That kiss the railing where I stand, 
A coral-beaded branch up-leaps 

Unto my grasping hand. 

! Holly. Holly, Holly tree. 
Emblem of love unwithering ! 

Thy coral-beaded branch to me 

Old memories doth bring. 
The Almanac I daily scan. 

The time-piece ticking on the wall. 
The roving bark that eastward ran, 

None such to me recall. 

1 see the windrows of the years. 

Dead memories drifted up a strand. 
One tired pearl that perseveres 

To reach the quiet land : 
And sea-waifs of sad mistletoe, 

That other dying sea-waifs follow ; 
And thorny shells that come and go ; 

And roseate shells — all hollow. — 

The gray December day wears by. 

The night falls on my lonely tower, 
I light the argand gala.\y 

And watch till morning's hour ; 
Pacing my gallery below 

With steps that elsewhere seem to rove ; 
And all is darkness here — but O ! 

The splendid light above ! 

CHARLES DAWSOX SHAXLV. 



BECALMED. 



It was as calm as calm could be, 

A death-still night in June ; 
A silver sail on a silver sea. 

Under a silver moon ; 
Not a breath of air the still sea stirred, 

But all on the dreaming deep 
The white ship lay, like a white sea-bird. 

With folded wings asleep. 



For a long, long month not a breath of air, 

For a month not a drop of rain ; 
And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair. 

With a fever in throat and brain ; 
And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, stand 

On the far horizon-sea : — 
It was only a short day's sail to the land. 

And the haven where they would be. 

Too faint to row, no signal brought 

An answer, far or nigh ; — 
Father, have mercy ! leave them not 

Alone on the deep to die. 
And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above. 

And the women prayed below : 
" One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love ! 

Oh, God ! for a breeze to blow ! " 



Kut never a shower from the skies would burst. 

And never a breeze would come ! 
Dear Heaven ! to think that man can thirst, 

.\nd starve in sight of home ! 
Hut out to sea, with the drifting tide. 

The vessel drifted away, 
Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud died. 

And the wild crew ceased to pray ! 

Calm gleamed the sea : calm gleamed the sky : 

No cloud — no sail — in view : 
.Vnd they cast them lots, for who should die 

To feed the star\'ing crew ! 
Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow. 

Like beasts, with hunger wild. 
But a mother prayed, in the cabin below. 

By the bed of her little child ! 

It slept : and lo! in its sleep it smiled: 

A babe of summers three : 
" O Father, save my little child. 

Whatever comes to me ! " 
I Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild, 

And red glazed eyes aglow ! 
And the death-lot fell— on the little child 

That slept in the cabin below ! 

.\nd the mother shrieked, in wild despair, 

" O God. my child, my son ! 
They will take his life : it is hard to bear : 

Yet, Father. Thy will be done ! " 
And she woke the child from its happy sleep, 

.And she knelt by the cradle-bed : 
•' We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep : 

We are dying, my child, for bread I 



WHAT THE SEA SAID. 



" On the lone, lone seas no sail, no breeze : 

Not a drop of rain in the sky ! 
We thirst — we starve— on the lonely seas : 

And thou, my child, muit die ! " 
She wept : what tears her wild soul shed 

Not I, but God. knows best. 
And the child rose up from its cradle-bed, 

And crossed its hands on its breast : 

" Father ! " he lisped, " so good — so kind — 

Have pity on mother's pain ! 
For mother's sake, a little wind ! 

Father, a little rain ! " [deck : 

And she heard them shout for the child from the 

And she knelt on the cabin stairs : 
" The child ! " they cry, "the child— stand back — 

And a curse on your idiot prayers ! " 

And the mother rose, in her wild despair, 

And she bared her throat to the knife : 
" Me — me — strike ! strike ! but spare, O spare 

My child — my dear son's life ! " 
O God, it was a ghastly sight ! 

Red eyes, like flaming brands, 
And a hundred belt-knives flashing bright 

In the clutch of skeleton-hands ! 

" Me — me — strike ! strike ! ye fiends of Death ! " 

But soft ! thro' the ghastly air 
Whose falling tear was that .' whose breath 

Waves thro' the mother's hair .' 
A flutter of sail— a ripple of seas — 

A speck on the cabin-pane ! 
O God ! it is a breeze— a breeze — 

And a drop of blessed rain ! 

And the mother rushed to the cabin below. 

And she wept on her babe's bright hair : 
" The sweet rain falls, the sweet winds blow : 

Father hath heard thy prayer ! " 
And the gaunt crew fell on their bended knees ; 

And they cried in raptures wild : [breeze : 

" Thank God ! thank God, for His rain and His 

Thank God for her little child ! " 

SAMUEL K. COWAN. 



THE RUINED CHAPEL. 

By the shore, a plot of ground 
Clips a ruin'd chapel round, 
Buttress'd with a grassy mound ; 

Where Day and Night and Day go by, 
And bring no touch of human sound. 



Washing of the lonely seas. 
Shaking of the guardian trees. 
Piping of the salted breeze ; 

Day and Night and Day go by 
To the endless tune of these. 

Or when, as winds and waters keep 
A hush more dead than any sleep, 
Still morns to stiller evenings creep, 

And Day and Night and Day go by; 
Here the silence is most deep. 

The empty ruins, lapsed again 

Into Nature's wide domain. 

Sow themselves with seed and grain 

As Day and Night and Day go by ; 
And hoard June's sun and April's raiiL 

Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; 
And now the graves are also dead ; 
And suckers from the ash-tree spread. 

While Day and Night and Day go by ; 
And stars move calmly overhead. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



WHAT 'IHE SEA SAID. 

The wash of the wave on the shingle. 
The fringe of the foam on the sand ; 

The soft twilight hush in which mingle 
Faint sounds of the sea and the land— 

All these ; and the sun dies in splendor. 
And shoreward the gray shadows fleet ; 

And the sea flings its song sad and tender 
In waves at my feet. 

The waves catch the starlight, and glisten 
In broken and shadowy gleams. 

And my ears are entranc'd as they listen 
To music, like music of dreams. 

O ! ear, by what fanciful weening, 
O ! heart, by what mystical lore, 

Can one clothe with a voice and a meaning. 
The sound on the shore ? 

To my sad heart it whispers a story. 
As sad as man's heart, and as old, 

That the poet must purchase his glory 
By sorrows that cannot be told-- 

That the crown of the singer tho' shining. 
With gems like a cluster of stars. 

Round a painstricken forehead is twining, 
Scarce hiding fate's scars. 



2b4 



j'OEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Tor the spent wave has fill'd, but to languish , 

The sparkle is lost in the foam : 
With a cry, like despair and like anguish, 

The billow rolls wearily home. 
It was mute when it rose as a billow. 

But moans when it strikes on the strand. 

Singing death-songs, it sinks on its pillow — 

Hard pillow of sand. 

Dash a heart on the hard world and break it, 
'Twill break to the sound of a song, 

Only hearts that know sorrow can make it 
Give music whose echo lives long. 

Only sad hearts flash out into stories 
That live on men's lips thro' the years ; 

Poets' lives when most brilliant with glories, 
Are glistening with tears. 

Sad memories and ghosts of lost faces 
Crowd in from the song from the past ; 

For, Iho' grief lose its first sting, its traces 
.\re branded on life to the last ; 

And to-day will melt into to-morrow. 
And years may be added to years. 

But from sorrow comes harvests of sorrow. 
And fountains of tears. 

JOSEPH F.\RRELL. 



Sometimes the seaman sailing near. 

When the breezes faintly blow, 
Will turn from the shore, and pause on his oar. 

While the rolling waters flow. 
To listen the sound, on the quiet deep, 

Of the bells that moan below. 

There are hearts that beat in the human breast. 

That humble and lowly be. 
Though made to throb unto mighty ends. 

Like the bells beneath the sea. 
That were made to chime from the lofty tower 

Of a church in a far countree. 

SAMUEL K. COWAN. 



THE BURIED BELLS. 

A fair ship sailed, with the bells aboard 

For a church in a far countree. — 
With sweet chime-bells for a far-off church ; 

But a storm blew suddenly, 
And the fair ship sank, and the hollow bells 

Moaned down into the sea. 

In the cruel tide, by the sweet bells' side. 

Full many a heart lies there. 
That had hoped to list to the holy chimes 

Ring out on the Sabbath air. 
And bow their heads to the hallowed call, 

With their hands uplift in prayer. 

But now, when the waves are blown with wind, 

And the ruffling ripples swell. 
There comes a sound from the depths beneath. 

Like the chime of a marriage bell ; 
Anon, to the slow long sweep of the deep, 

A moan like a funeral knell. 



THE YEAR'S ANGELS. 

Out watching all alone the dying year 
I sudden saw two forms before me stand, 
One like an angel bearing in its hand 
Such lily-flowers as to the saints are dear ; 
The other was a shapeless thing of fear, 
A dusky vision on whose brow the brand 
Of vile old age seemed writ by God's command. 
Of whom I wondering asked, "What do ye here?" 
To whom the angel answered, " Woe is me, 
I am your hopes — I am what might have been. 
Look on my face, and as you look lament." 
Then that foul other, smiling terribly. 
"As in this bright one thou thy hopes hast seen, 
Now look on me and learn their fulfillment." 
JUSTIN H. McCarthy. 



CROSSING THE FERRY. 

" The stream glides smooth. O Ferrj'man ! 

The bowery trees between ; 
Your life. I warrant, as smoothly ran 

'Mid flowery meads as green ? " 

" The river is swifter than once it was, 

O Sailor of the sea ! 
Or my heart has hurried the flight of Age, 

For the woe that came on me." 

" Gray Ferryman ! give to me the oar ; 

You should, indeed, have rest, 
'Mid your children under the sycamore. 

In yon white cottage-nest." 



A CITY POPULOUS. 



^65 



" There is none within that cottage white, 

O Sailor of the sea ! 
None now, alas, to take my place — 

But what is that to thee ? " 



" I am weary with travel, Ferryman! 

And now we touch the brink, 
I pray you give me, as you can. 

To rest, and eat and drink." 



" There is desolation in my home, 

O Sailor of the sea ! 
'T would smite thy heart with utter woe — 

Go thou thy way from me." 

All joy seemed suddenly to fail 
The youth — he bowed his head, 

And drawing near, said low, all pale — 
" Is she, my mother, dead ? " 

Upon his neck he fell : — " My son ! — 

My lost son from the sea ! — 
She is not dead, but dieth. — Death 

Before thy voice will fiee ! " 

GEORGE SIGERSON. 



NEARING THE CITY BY NIGHT. 

Daylight was dying and dimness was creeping. 

Landscape and life were despoiled of their 
charm ; 
Swift on our straight iron path we were sweeping. 

Anxious and mute 'mid the solemn alarm. 
Awful the shadows that round us were massing ; 
Huge and misshapen the things that were 
passing, 

Further, still further from life and from light ; 
On we went fearing, and on went careering, 

And so we were nearing the city by night. 



Wayfarers, strangers, each other unknowing, 
Still more unknown was the goal that we 
sought ; 
Morn found us reckless of where we were going ; 
Night on a sudden brought gloom in our 
thought ; 



Ah ! this strange city, how much did we fear it ! 
No one had seen it or ever been near it ; 

What did it keep for us — pain or delight ? 
Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering. 

And so we were nearing the city by night. 

Terrible tales had been told us about it ; — 

Can we be certain we there shall find rest ? 
Are we so near it ? Ah ! would we could doubt it ! 

Could we fly back from it, that might be best. 
One blessed chance then indeed hovered o'er us. 
Of meeting the friends who had gone there 
before us, 

But still with uncertainty blended affright,— 
Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering, 

And so we were nearing the city by night. 

Stars glimmered out, but our fear was unceasing — 

Stars could be baleful no less than benign : 
Cavernous darkness and phantoms increasing — 

These were the prospect our eyes could divine ; 
Forests of vastness that ever kept booming. 
Valleys of blackness that roared at our coming. 

Can it be wondered our souls were affright .' 
Thus we went fearing, and thus went careering. 

And so we were nearing the city by night. 

Ah ! but I dare not go on to the ending, — 

Landscape nor fancy can match in its tone 
The depth of the crisis sublime and transcend- 
ing — [unknown ! 

The crisis when man goes to meet the 
Whether these things are all true evidences. 
Or parts of a dream that stills hangs o'er my 
senses. 

Often I shudder and think with affright. 
That ever there's somebody, somebody fearing. 

And somebody nearing the city by night. 

FRANCIS O'RYAN. 



A CITY POPULOUS. 

O'er a strange city populous 

In a haze-sky floats the moon. 
And the shadows hang like vapors 

Under the trees of June ; 
And the dewdrops, radiant, mystic, 
Glow like fire-opals tremulous; 
Strewn in the silent grasses- 
Sown on the untrod mosses 
That grow in that city populous. 



266 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Within that city populous 

Rise towers of purest white, 
Feet-claspt with rainy mosses 

And ivies trailinj; bright ; 
Pale flowers and fxiorous lilies 
Adrowse in the dreamy light 

Which, as in legends fabulous. 
Sheens in pearl-waves nebulous 
O'er that strange city populous. 

At the gate of that strange, dim city 

Stands a Silence pale ; unkissed 
Are her red lips, parted, trembling ; 

And her braids of tawny mist 
Seem born of the flying night-clouds. 

And dank with the dews of June, 
While at her feet the nightshades 

Hang dripping beneath the moon. 

Strange is it — still and sombre — 

This city dim and old ; 
You would deem it ruined, haunted, 

All is so hushed and cold 
When at midnight the moon's splendor 

Drops down in showers of gold. [palaces 

Yet often over its length of storm-worn, marble 
Trampleth the tempest-blown rain from the 
cliffs of the cold north seas. 



Green are its streets and i 

In the moonlight cold, unpaven, 

And its grasses dank, unshaven, 
Mixed with rue and yarrow ; 
.\nd here, by the dim. white arches, 
The murmurous, rustling larches 

Lift up cold hands to heaven ; 
Here, too. in the grasses verdurous. 
Like a pale pearl, filmy, tremulous. 
The glow-worm lights his lamp 
Under the nightshades damp 
That grow in that city populous. 

Where is that populous city 

Where the lilies drift in balm? 
Where all night long the shadows 

Float in the odorous calm? 
O Heart ! it is ever near you. 

Praying you enter in 
And lie with its beautiful Silence, 

At rest from toil and sin. 
Yet beware ! From that siren Silence, 

And her mystic quiet marvellous, 
Retumeth none who enter 

Into that city populous. 

CH.ARLES J. O'MALLEY. 



JASPER DEAN. 

The apples were red in the orchard, the meadows 

were sober and bare. 
The woods were aflame with a splendor thai 

glowed in the glorified air. 

Through the valley a tremuluous murmur ran 

drowsily all the day long. 
Where a brook kissed the pebbles, and passed 

them, and sang its perpetual song. 

Leaning over the gate of his garden, the leaves 

all awhirl at his feet, 
Jasper Dean mused, like one who was dreaming 

a dream far more bitter than sweet. 

" I am fifty year old this October," he muttered, 

" and how do I stand ? 
Well, I own a smart house and two hundred 

good acres of tol'rable land. 

" There's many a man would be happy with half 

what I've got to my name. 
But I'm not; and I reckon most likely there's 

suthin" or other to blame. 

" There's a feelin' that sometimes comes on me, 
and mostly at this time o' year — 

When the birds fly away, and the dimness gives 
notice that winter is near,— 

" There's a feelin' that sometimes comes on me, 
and makes me half wish to be dead ; 

AntI I don't know e.xackly what brings it to buzz 
like a bee in my head. 

" It may be the change o' the seasons, with death 

and decay all around ; 
Or it may be a wish growin' stronger for suthin" 

that ain't to be found. 

" There is hardly a day but the neighbors are 

talkin' about my affairs. 
I don't thank 'em for mindin' my bus'ness. I'm 

sure I don't meddle with theirs. 

" But they talk and they talk, and the drift of it 

all is about my dull life. 
It is dull, I know that very well ; but I'm now 

past the time for a wife. 

When a man touches fifty, like me, he had bet- 
ter be sayin' his prayers. 
Than frettin' himself about women and runnin' 
his head into snares. 



THE FOISON-FLOWER. 



267 



"There was Absalom Brown, that went off and 
; got married at 'most fifty-five ; 

If he hadn't done that, I don't doubt but the 
critter would still be alive. 

" But the woman he took, she just worried his 

wits out in less'n a year ; 
Though when he went off she was ready with 

many a crocodile tear. 

" But all women are not o' that sort. There are 

plenty as good as can be ; 
And if I had married at thirty it might have 

been better for me. 

i " There's the house, and a good one it is — not a 
i better the county can show ; 

I But I never go in without feelin' a dullness, in- 
stead of a glow 

"A home may seem ever so pleasant and ever 
so neat and so fine, 
; And still have no comfort within it ; and that's 
what's the matter with mine. 

" There is never a voice to give welcome, and 

never a glad smile to greet, 
And my heart never throbs to the musical patter 

of innocent feet. 

"What's the use of a man always strivin'? He 
I gains but a little at last ; 

And it gen'rally comes, if at all. when the time 
to enjoy it is past. 

j " Now, if I had married at thirty, as I had a no- 
tion to do, 
I Who can tell but my heart would be lighter, the 
j home a more pleasant one, too ? 

I 

j " But somehow I waited and waited ; and now 
I I am fifty year old ; 

There is plenty o' frost in my hair, and my blood 
\ has grown sluggish and cold ; 

"I feel more like restin' than workin', and every 

year that goes by 
'Pears to tell me I'd better be careful, and leaves 

me a trifle less spry. 

"And suthin' comes on me in autumn — I don't 

know exackly what way — 
That makes me feel sad-like and solemn, and 

sets all mv ideas astray 



" It may be the change o' the seasons, with death 

and decay all around. 
Or it may be a wishin' and longin' for suthin' 

that ain't to be found. 

"A man without some one to care for is not what 

a man ought to be. 
And a home without some one to cheer it ain't 

pleasant to have or to see. 



" Now, if I had married at thirty— psha 

I am drivellin' on, 
With a lot o' things still to be seen to, 

sun, as I live, a'most gone. 



here 



•' There's a chill in the air about sundown — I 

reckon I'd better get round. 
Or I'll have that old rheumaliz shootin' all through 

me again, I'll be bound ! " 



JIEL CONNOLLY. 



THE POISON-FLOWER. 

In the evergreen shade of an Austral wood, 

Where the long branches laced above. 

Through which all day it seemed 

The sweet sumbeams down gleamed 

Like the rays of a young mother's love. 

When she hides her glad face with her hands 

and peeps 
At the youngling that crows on her knee 
'Neath such ray-shivered shade, 
In a banksia glade. 
Was this flower first shown to me. 

A rich pansy it was, with a small white lip 
And a wonderful purple hood : 

And your eye caught the sheen 

Of its leaves, parrot-green, 
Down the dim gothic aisles of the wood. 
And its foliage rich on the moistureless sand 
Made you long for its odorous breath ; 

But ah ! 'twas to take 

To your bosom a snake. 
For its pestilent fragrance was death. 

And I saw it again, in a far northern land, — 
Not a pansy, not purple and white ; 
Yet in beauteous guise 
Did this poison plant rise. 
Fair and fatal again to my sight. 



POEMS OF REFLECT/ON. 



And men longed for her kiss and her odorous Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales. 



breath 
When no friend was beside them to tell 

That to kiss was to die. 

That her truth was a lie, 
And her beauty a soul killing spell. 

JOHN' BOYLE C'REILLY. 



ONE WOMAN. 



As wanderers, thirsting in the wilderness. 
Long for lost wells forever deep and cold ; 

So, in the moments of my lone distress. 
My heart goes back to seek the love of old. 

Calm, earnest eyes, so full of light for nie. 

Dear, kindly voice, more eloquent than strong. 
Soul firm in its great love for liberty, 

And its proud scorn of prejudice and wrong. 

I see it all ; hair silvered ere its time. 
The pale cheek turning paler hour by hour ; 

And weep the life that perished in its prime 
Before all learned the compass of its power. 

Now gone forever ! here, alone and weak. 

I feel the absence of his grave caress ; 
And cold they call me, that I cannot speak 

With those dear memories of new tenderness. 

So let them judge, whose idle hearths are warm, 
For whom Life's flower in full perfection 

1 must endure it, as I faced the storm (thrives. 
That never beat on their protected lives. 

But there's one gift I asked. O Lord, of Thee, 

To grant the laurel I desired to claim ; 
Not for the comfort of weak vanity. 
But for the garland of my father's name ! 

MARION MIIR. 



The lily wraps her silver vest, 
I Till vernal suns and vernal gales 

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. 
Oh, many a stormy night shall close 

In gloom upon the barren earth. 
While still in undisturbed repose. 
Uninjured lies the future birth. 

And ignorance, with skeptic eye, 

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view. 
Or mark her fond credulity. 

As her soft tears the spot bedew ; 
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear. 

The sun, the shower indeed shall come. 
The promised verdant shoot appear. 

And nature bid her bk)ssoms bloom. 



/\nd thou, O virgin queen of spring, 

Shalt from thy dark and lowly bed, 
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string. 

Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed ; 
Unfold thy robes of purest white, 

LInsullied from their darksome grave. 
And thy soft petal's flowery light 

In the mild breeze unfettered wave. 

So faith shall seek the lowly dust 

Where humble sorrow loves to lie, 
.And bid her thus her hope intrust, 

And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; 
And bear the long, cold, wintry night. 

And bear her own degraded doom ; 
And wait till heaven's reviving light. 

Eternal spring, shall burst the gloom. 



M.\Ry TIGHE. 



THE LILY. 



How withered, perished seems the form 

Of yon obscure, unsightly root I 
Yet from the blight of wintry storm 

It hides secure the precious fruit. 
The careless eye can find no grace. 

No beauty in the scaly folds. 
Nor see within the dark embrace 

What latent loveliness it holds. 



THE WIND-SWEPT WHEAT. 

Faint, faint and clear — 
Faint as the music that in dreams we hear — 
Shaking the curtain fold of sleep, 
That shuts away [of day, 

The world's hoarse voice, the sights and sounds 
Her sorry joys, her phantoms false and fleet- 
So softly, softly stirs 
The wind's low murmur in the rippled wheat. 



From West to East 

The warm breath blows, the slender heads drop 
As if in prayer ; [low 

Again, more lightly tossed in merry play, 
They bend and bow and sway 



THE POET AT COURT. 



269 



With measured beat, 
But never rest- 
Through shadow and through sun 
Goes on the tender rustle of the wheat. 

Dreams more than sleep, 

Fall on the listening heart and lull its care ; 

Dead years send back 

Some treasured, half forgotten time ; — • 

Ah, long ago. 

When sun and sky were sweet. 

In happy noon. 

We stood breast high, 'mid waves of ripened grain, 

And heard the wind make music in the wheat ! 

Not for to-day — 

Not for this hour alone — the melody 

So soft and ceaseless thrills the dreamer's ear ! 

Of all that was and is, of all that yet shall be, 

It holds a part - 

Love, sorrow, longing pain ; 

The restlessness that yearns ; 

The thirst that burns ; 

The bliss that like a fountain overflows ; 

The deep repose ; 

Good that we might have known, but shall not 

know ; 
The hope God took, the joy He made complete- 
Life's chords all answer from the wind-swept 

wheat. 

^rARV AINGE DE VERE. 



IF THE WIND RISE. 

An open sea, a gallant breeze. 

That drives our little boat — 
How fast each wave about flees 
How fast the low clouds float ! 

" We'll never see the morning skies. 
If the wind rise." 
" If the wind rise 
We'll hear no more of earthly lies." 

The moon from time to time breaks out 

And silvers all the sea ; 
The billows toss their manes about. 
The little boat leaps free. 

" We'll never see our true loves' eyes. 
If the wind rise." 
" If the wind rise 
We'll waste no more our foolish sighs.' 



She takes a dash of foam before, 

A dash of spray behind ; 

The wolfish waves about her roar, 

And gallop with the wind. 

" We'll see no more the woodland dyes, 
If the wind rise." 
" If the wind rise 
We've heard the last of human cries." 

The sky seems bending lower down, 

And swifter sweeps the gale ; 
Our craft she shakes from heel to crovm 
And dips her fragile sail. 

" We may forgive our enemies 
If the wind rise." 
" If the wind rise 
We'll sup this night in Paradise." 

JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 



THE POET. 



He suffers ; but his mournful days are crowned 

By the diviner joy of those to be ; 

His heart may bleed, yet he hath power to see 

All loves wherewith the universe is bound : 

And tones that link the living sense of sound 

With the deep secrets of infinity. 

Blow through his spirit, beautiful and free. 

He knows, though all the world upon him frowned. 

By the immortal burdens it hath borne. 

How lofty is the soul that in him dwells. 

Life he can lay aside — a garment worn — 

And, smiling, walk among the asphodels ; 

For glory and despair, all joy and woe. 

And love and action, are to him a show. 

MARION MUIR 



THE POET AT COURT. 

He stands alone in the lordly hall — 

He, vi'ith the high, pale brow ; 
But never a one at the festival 

Was half so great, I trow. 
They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, 

Slaves to an earthly king ; 
But the heir of a loftier dynasty 

May scorn that courtly ring. 

They press, with false and flattering words. 
Around the blood-bought throne ; 

But the homage never yet won by swords 
Is his— the Anointed One ! 



270 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



His sway over every nation 
Extendeth from zone to zone ; 

He reigns as a god o'er creation- 
The universe is his own. 



No star on his breast is beaming. 

But the light of his flashing eye 
Reveals, in its haughtier gleaming, 

The conscious majesty. 
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow — ■ 

Away wnth that golden thing I 
Your fealty was never yet due till now— 

Kneel to the god-made King ! 

LADY WILDE. 



THE POET TO HIS SON. 

Come forth, my son, into the fields, — 

What is there in the crowd 
Of hearts or scenes the city yields 

To make young spirits proud ? 
Girt by mankind. \vc dream a God 

May in the skies abide; 
Hut O ! he must be all a clod. 
Who feels not on the fragrant sod, 

God walketh by his side ! 

Could I withdraw thee from the cold. 

The mean, the base, the stern. 
And selfish craft that young and old 

From grasping crowds must learn ; 
How gladly to some rural nook 

Would I transplant thy mind ; 
From nature's brow and sage's book, 
To learn that highest lore— to look 

With love upon mankind ! 

Field, forest, glen, rock, hill, and stream. 

Green robe and snowy shroud — 
The calm, the storm, the lightning gleam, 

The sea, the sky. the cloud. — 
Are volumes the Eternal One 

Hath sent us from above, ■ 
For every heart to study on 
And learn to suffer, seek, or shun, 

In charity and love. 

The weak may there be taught to cope. 

The mighty to beware ; 
The fond to doubt, the slave to hope, 

The tyrant to despair — 



Changing and changeless, that which dies. 

And that no death can mar. 
Silent and sounding, wild and wise, 
Before each mood of passion rise 

A beacon, or a bar. 

My son, to these rich volumes oft 

From throngs and streets retire ; 
So shall thy spirit soar aloft 

From low and base desire. 
And when thy country, chained or free, 

From city and green sod 
Arrays the people's majesty. 
Thy soul, in truth and wisdom, be 

.\ soul that spoke with God. 

JOH.N D. FRAZKR. 



WHAT AILS THE WORLD? 

" What ails the world } " the poet cried ; 
"And why does death walk everywhere.' 
And why do tears fall anywhere ? 
And skies have clouds, and souls have care.'' 

Thus the poet sang, and sighed. 

For he would fain have all things glad, 
All lives happy, all hearts bright ; 
Not a day would end in night, 
Not a wrong would vex a right — 

And so he sang — and he was sad. 

Through his very grandest rhymes 

Moved a mournful monotone — 

Like a shadow eastward thrown 

From a sunset— like a moan 
Tangled in a joy-bell's chimes. 

" What ails the world .' " he sang and asked — 
And asked and sang — but all in vain ; 
No answer came to any strain. 
And no reply to his refrain — 

The mystery moved 'round him masked. 



" What ails the world .' " An echo i 

" Ails the world .' " The minstrel bands. 
With famous or forgotten hands. 
Lift up their lyres in all the lands. 

And chant alike, and ask the same 

From him whose soul first soared in song, 
A thousand, thousand years away. 
To him who sang but yesterday. 
In dying or in deathless lay — 

" What ails the world ? " comes from the throng. 



O.V A.V OLD SONG. 



271 



They fain would sing the world to rest ; 
And so they chant in countless keys, 
As many as the waves of seas, 
An-.I as the breathings of the breeze, 
Yet even when they sing their best- 
When o'er the listening world there floats 
Such melody as 'raptures men — 
When all look up entranced, and when 
The song of fame floats forth — e'en then 
A discord creepeth through the notes. 

Their sweetest harps have broken strings. 
Their grandest accords have their jars. 
Like shadows on the light of stars ; 
And somehow, something ever mars 

The songs the greatest minstrel sings. 

And so each song is incomplete. 
And not a rhyme can ever round 
Into the chords of perfect sound 
The tones of thought that e'er surround 

The ways walked by the poet's feet. 

" What ails the world .' " he sings and sighs ; 

No answer cometh to his cry. 

He asks the earth and asks the sky — 

The echoes of his song pass by 
Unanswered, — and the poet dies. 

ABRAM J. RYAN. 



BROTHER BARTHOLOMEW. 

Brother Bartholomew, working-time. 

Would fall into musing and drop his tools ; 

Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme 
More than for theses of the schools ; 

And sighed, and took up his burden so. 

Vowed to the Muses, weal or woe. 

At matins he sat, the book on his knees. 
But his thoughts were wandering far away 

And chanted the evening litanies. 
Watching the roseate skies go gray, 

Watching the brightening starry host 

Flame like the tongues at Pentecost. 

"A foolish dreamer, and nothing more ; 

The idlest fellow a cell could hold ; " 
So murmured the worthy Isidor, 

Prior of ancient Nithiswold ; 
Yet pitiful, with dispraise content. 
Signed never the culprit's banishment. 



Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way, 
And patiently wrote in his sunny cell ; 

His pen fast travelled from day to day; 
His books were covered ; the walls as well. 

" But O for the monk that I miss instead 

Of this listless rhymer I " the Prior said. 

Bartholomew dying, as mortals must. 
Not unbeloved of the cowled throng. 

Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust 
Of shelves and of corners, many a song 

That cried loud, loud to the farthest day, 
How a bard had arisen — and passed away. 

Wonderful verses ! fair and fine. 
Rich in the old Greek loveliness ; 

The seer-like vision, half divine ; 
Pathos and merriment in excess. 

And every perfect stanza told 

Of love and of labor manifold. 

The King came out and stood beside 
Bartholomew's taper-lighted bier. 

And turning to his lords he sighed: 

" How worn and wearied doth he appear — 

Our noble poet — now he is dead I " 

" O tireless worker ! " the Prior said. 

LOUISE l.MOGEN GUINEY. 



ON AN OLD SONG. 

Little snatch of ancient song. 
What has made thee live so long? 
Flying on thy wings of rhyme 
Lightly down the depths of time, 
Telling nothing strange or rare. 
Scarce a thought or image there. 
Nothing but the old, old tale 
Of a hapless lover's wail ; 
Offspring of some idle hour, 
Whence has come thy lasting power } 
By what turn of rhythm or phrase. 
By what subtle, careless grace 
Can thy music charm our ears 
After full three hundred years.? 

Little song, since thou wert born 
In the Reformation morn. 
How much of great has passed away. 
Shattered or by slow decay I 
Stately piles in ruins crumbled, 
Lordly houses lost or humbled. 



POEMS OF MEFLECT/O.W 



Thrones and realms in darkness hurled. 

Noble flags forever furled, 

Wisest schemes by statesmen spun. 

Time has seen them, one by one. 

Like the leaves of autumn fall — 

A little song outlives them all. 

There were mighty scholars then 
With the slow, laborious pen 
Piling up their works of learning. 
Men of solid, deep discerning. 
Widely famous as they taught 
Systems of connected thought, 
Destined for all future ages ; 
Now the cobweb binds their pages. 
All unread their volumes lie 
Mouldering so peaceably, 
ColTmed thoughts of coffined men; 
Never more to stir again 
In the passion and the strife. 
In the fleeting forms of life ; 
All their force and meaning gone 
As the stream of thought flows on. 

Art thou weary, little song. 
Flying through the world so long? 
Canst thou on thy fairy pinions 
Cleave the future's dark dominions 
And with music soft and clear 
Charm the yet unfashioned ear. 
Mingling with the things unborn 
When perchance another morn 
Great as that which gave thee birth 
Dawns upon the changing earth ? 
It may be so, for all around, 
With a heavy crashing sound, 
Like the ice of polar seas 
Melting in the summer breeze. 
Signs of change are gathering fast, 
Nations breaking with their past. 

The pulse of thought is beating quicker, 
The lamp of faith begins to flicker. 
The ancient reverence decays 
With forms and types of other days ; 
And old beliefs grow faint and few 
As knowledge moulds the world anew, 
.A.nd scatters far and wide the seeds 
Of other hopes and other creeds ; 
And all in vain we seek to trace 
The fortunes of the coming race. 
Some with fear and some with hope. 
None can cast its horoscope. 
Vaporous lamp or rising star. 
Many a light is seen afar. 



And dim, shapeless ligures loom 
.•\ll around us in the gloom — 
Forces that may rise and reign 
.As the old ideals wane. 

Landmarks of the human mind. 

One by one are left behind. 

And a subtle change is wrought 

In the mould and cast of thought. 

Modes of reasoning pass away, 

T>TJcs of beauty lose their sway. 

Creeds and causes that have made 

Many noble lives, must fade ; 

And the words that thrilled of old 

Now seem hueless, dead, and cold 

Fancy's rainbow tints are flying. 

Thoughts, like men, arc slowly dying ; 

All things perish, and the strongest 

Often do not last the longest ; 

The stately ship is seen no more. 

The fragile skiff attains the shore ; 

\nA while the great and wise decay. 

And all their trophies pass away, 

Some sudden thought, some careless rhyme 

Still floats above the wrecks of time. 

WILLIAM K. H. LF.CKEY. 



THE MUSIC MAKERS. 

We are the music makers. 

We are the dreamers of dreams. 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers. 

And sitting by desolate streams ; — 
World-losers and world-forsakers. 

On whom the pale moon gleams : 
Yet we are the movers and shakers 

Of the world forever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 
We build up the world's great cities. 
And out of a fabulous story 
We fashion an empire's glory : 
One man with a dream, at pleasure 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown ; 
And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

We. in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth. 
Built Nineveh with our sighing. 

And Babel itself in our mirth ; 



SAJV SAL VADOR. 



272, 



And o'erthrew them with prophesyiiv.j 
To the old of the new world's worth ; 

For each age is a dream that is dying. 
Or one that is coming to birth. 

A breath of our inspiration 

Is the life of our generation ; 

A wondrous thing of our dreaming 

Unearthly, impossible seeming — 

The soldier, the king, and the peasant 

Are working together in one, 
Till our dream shall become their present, 

And their work in the world be done. 

They had no vision amazing 

Of the goodly house they are raising ; 

They had no divine foreshowing 

Of the land to which they are going : 

But on one man's soul it hath broken. 

A light that doth not depart ; 
And his look, or a word he hath spoken. 

Wrought flame in another man's heart. 

And therefore to-day is thrilling 
With a past day's late fulfilling ; 
And the multitudes are enlisted 
In the faith that their fathers resisted. 
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow. 

Are bringing to pass as they may. 
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, 

The dream that was scorned yesterday. 

But we, with our dreaming and singing. 

Ceaseless and sorrowless we ! 
The glory about us clinging 

Of the glorious futures we see. 
Our souls with high music ringing : 

O men I it must ever be 
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, 

A little apart from ye. 

For we are afar with the dawning 

And the suns that are not yet high, 
And out of the infinite morning 

Intrepid you hear us cry — 
How, spite of your human scorning, 

Once more God's future draws nigh. 
And already goes forth the warning 

That ye of the past must die. 

Great hail ! we cry to the comers 
From the dazzling unknown shore . 

Bring us hither your sun and your summers. 
And renew our world as of yore ; 



You shall teach us your song's new numbers. 
And things that we dreamed not before : 

Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers. 
And a singer who sings no more. 



I.RTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 



SAN SALVADOR. 



A flovv'ry waste, through ages gray. 
In ocean's lap Columbia lay, 
Save where its erring people troil 
As e.xiles from the face of God ; 
While slowly moved, from place to place, 
The footsteps of his chosen race. 
Ere yet arose th' empyrean gem, — 
The star that led to Bethlehem, — 
Still kept an angel watch and ward 
O'er this dominion of the Lord. — 
Adoremus dc 



Upon the mountains of the land. 
The angel took his patient stand. 
And thro' the ages watched and wept, 
As human passions surged or slept ; 
For well he knew how human will 
And pride retard God's mercy still. 
Yet well he knew that even these 
Must yield at length to His decrees ; 
The destined hour might be afar. 
But mercy steps from star to star. 
Adoremus dominum ! 

The rolling plains and forests green. 
Put on or doffed their sylvan sheen ; 
From mountain chains the rivers rolled. 
Through azure beds besprent with gold ; 
From peak to peak the thunder spoke, 
The mountains felt the lightnnig's stroke; 
From out the day's or night's repose, 
The ever-startling war-whoop rose ; — 
But still the angel, all alone. 
Sent this refrain to heaven's throne, — 
Adoremus dominum ! 

'Twas autumn ; and the angel stood 

Gazing afar o'er ocean's flood; 

While twilight died, in purp'ling shades. 

Along the tropic everglades; — 

He saw the rainbow in the sky. 

And knew the destined hour was nigh ; — 



274 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



There, as the wearied albatross. 
He saw afar, the labnng cross 
Arise, or sink behind tlie wave. 
And sang to heaven this joyous stave, — 
Adoremus dominum ! 

Amid the gloom, far out at sea, 
A frail barque rode ; alternately 
Her slender mast and trembling spars 
Went circling through the rising stars; 
Now, flung athwart, engulfed from sight, 
Now standing on the waves, aright ;— 
But gazing, steadfast from her prow. 
A seaworn man of solemn brow, 
The symbol'd cross in his right hand,— 
'Twas thus Columbus sought the land,— 
Adoremus dominum ! 

The wails of a desponding crew 
Pierce his heroic bosom through. 
He points the way the seamew goes, 
A sign the ocean-wanderer knows ; 
Still rings that wild rebellious cry,— 
He points the sea rack drifting by. — 
The land is near !— O, blessed sign ! 
He kneels and thanks the Power benign ! 
Uplifts the croslet on his sword. 
While rings from all to mercy's Lord, — 
Adoremus dominum ! 

The morning dawned. — O, heavenly light ! — 
What isles, what wonders crown his sight !— 
Pledging both north and southward coasts. 
An offering to the Lord of Hosts ; 
He plants his banner on the shore. 
And names the place San Salvador, — 
For there salvation's reign began. 
And there the angel blessed the man, 
Thence bore to heaven, on spreading wings. 
Those tidings to the King of Kings, — 
Adoremus dominum ! 

JOHN BOYLE. 



AVE IMPERATRIX. 
Set in this stormy Northern sea. 

Queen of these restless fields of tide, 
England ! what shall men say of thee. 

Before whose feet the worlds divide? 

The earth, a brittle globe of glass, 
Lies in the hollow of thy hand. 

And through its heart of crystal pass. 
Like shadows through a twilight land. 



The spears of crimson-suited war. 

The long white crested waves of fight. 
And all the deadly fires which are 

The torches of the lords of Night. 

The yellow leopards, strained and lean. 

The treacherous Russian knows so well. 
With gaping blackened jaws are seen 

Leap through the hail of screaming shell. 

The strong sea-lion of England's wars 
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea. 

To battle with the storm that mars 
riie star of England's chivalry. 

The brazen throated clarion blows 
Across the Pathan's reedy fen. 
I And the high steeps of Indian snows 
Shake to the tread of armed men. 

And many an Afghan chief, who lies 

Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, 
I Clutches his sword in fierce surmise 
When on the mountain-side he sees 

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes 

To tell how he hath heard afar 
The measured roll of English drums 

Beat at the gates of Kandahar. 

For southern wind and east wind meet 

Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, 
England with bare and bloody feet 
I Climbs the steep road of wide empire. 

O lonely Himalayan height, 
' Gray pillar of the Indian sky, 
I Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight. 
Our winged dogs of Victory.' 

The almond groves of Samarcand, 
; Bokhara, where red lilies blow, 
I And Oxus, by whose yellow sand 

The grave white-turbaned merchants go : 

And on from thence to Ispahan, 

The gilded garden of the sun. 
Whence the long dusty caravan 

Brings cedar and vermilion ; 

And that dread city of Cabool 

Set at the mountain's scarped feet. 
Whose marble tanks are ever full 

With water for the noonday heat : 
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar 

A little maid Circassian 
Is led, a present from the Czar 

Unto some old and bearded khan, — 



' COLUMBUS. 



275 



Here have our wild war-eagles flown, 
And flapped wide wings in liery fight ; 

But the sad dove, that sits alone 
In England — she hath no delight. 

In vain the laughing girl will lean 
To greet her love vi-ith love-lit eyes . 

Down in some treacherous black ravine. 
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. 

And many a moon and sun will see 
The lingering wistful children wait 

To climb upon their father's knee ; 
And in each house made desolate. 

Pale women who have lost their lonl 

Will kiss the relics of the slain — 
.Some tarnished epaulet — some sword — 

Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. 

For not in quiet English fields 

Are these, our brothers, lain to rest. 

Where we might deck their broken shields 
With all the flowers the dead love best. 

For some are by the Delhi walls. 

And many in the Afghan land. 
And many where the Ganges falls 

Through seven mouths of shifting sand. 

And some in Russian waters lie. 

And others in the seas which are 
The portals to the East, or by 

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. 

O wandering graves ! O restless sleep ! 

O silence of the sunless day ! 
O still ravine ! O stormy deep ! 

Give up your prey ! Give up your prey ! 

And thou whose wounds are never healed, 

Whose weary race is never won, 
O Cromwell's England ! must thou yield 

For every inch of ground a son .'' 

Go ! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head. 
Change thy glad song to song of pain ; 

Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, 
And will not yield them back again. 

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore 
Possess the flower of English land — 

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more. 
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. 



What profit now that we have bound 

The whole round world with nets of gold. 

If hidden in our heart is found 
The care that groweth never old .' 

What profit that our galleys ride. 

Pine-forest-like, on every main ? 
Ruin and wreck are at our side. 

Grim warders of the House of pain. 

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet ? 

Where is our English chivalry? 
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, 

And throbbing waves their threnody. 

O loved ones lying far away. 

What word of love can dead lips send ! 
O wasted dust ! O senseless clay I 

Is this the end ! is this the end I 

Peace, peace I we wrong the noble dead 

To vex their solemn slumber so : 
Tho' childless, and with thorn-crowned head, 

Up the steep road must England go. 

Yet when this fiery web is spun, 
Her watchman shall descry from far 

The young Republic like a sun 

Rise from these crimson seas of war. 

OSCAR WILDE. 



COLUMBUS. 



I. 

The crimson sun was sinking down to rest. 
Pavilioned on the cloudy verge of heaven ; 
And Ocean, on her gently heaving breast, [even; 
Caught and flashed back the varying tints of 
When on a fragment from the tall cliff riven. 
With folded arms, and doubtful thoughts op- 
pressed, 
Columbus sat, till sudden hope was given, — 
A ray of gladness shooting from the West. 
Oh. what a glorious vision for mankind 
Then dawned above the twilight of his mind- 
Thoughts shadowy still, but indistinctly grand ! 
There stood his Genius, face to face, and signed 
(So legends tellj far seaward with her hand,— 
Till a new world sprang up, and bloomed within 
her hand. 



2jb 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



II. 

He was a man whom danger could not daunt, 

Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain subdue ; 

A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt. 

And steeled the path of honor to pursue : 

So. when by all deserted, still he knew 

How best to soothe the heart-sick, or confront 

Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view 

The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want. 

But when he saw that promised land arise 

In all its rare and bright varieties. 

Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 

Then softening nature melted in his eyes ; 

He knew his fame was full, and blessed his God. 

And fell upon his face, and kissed the virgin sod. 

III. 

Beautiful realm beyond the western main. 
That hymns thee ever with resounding wave ! 
Thine is the glorious sun's peculiar reign. 
Fruit, flowers, and gems in rich mosaic pave 
Thy paths ; like giant altars o'er the plain 
Thy mountains blaze, loud thundering, 'mid the 

rave 
Of mighty streams that shoreward rush amain. 
Like Polypheme from his ^ttnean cave. 
Joy, joy for Spain ! a seaman's hand confers 
These glorious gifts, and half the world is hers ! 
But where is he— that light whose radiance glows 
The loadstar of succeeding mariners ? 
Behold him ! crushed beneath o'ermastering 

woes, — 
Hopeless, heart-broken, chained, abandoned to 

his foes ! 

AUBRKV DE VERE. 



MAN'S MORTALITY.* 

Like a damask rose you see. 

Or like blossom on a tree. 

Or like a dainty flower in May, 

Or like the morning to the day. 

Or like the sun. or like the shade. 

Or like the gourd which Jonas had- 



* The original of this poem is said to have been found in an 
ancient Irish MS. in Trinity College, Dublin, and the trans- 
lation is ascribed to the eminent Celtic scholar. Dr. O'Oono- 
van. It is proper to s.iy, however, that a poem identical with 
Its 6rst and second stanzas appears in some old collections, 
credited to Simon Wastell, an English writer of the .Sixteenth 



Even such is man, whose thread is spun. 
Drawn out and out, and so is done. 

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 

The flower fades, the morning hasteth. 

The sun sets, the shadow flies. 

The gourd consumes ; the man— he dies. 

■ Like the grass that's newly sprung, 
I Or like the tale that's new begun. 
! Or like the bird that's here to-day. 
Or like the pearled dew in May, 
Or like an hour, or like a span. 
Or like the singing of the swan — 
Even such is man, who lives by breath. 
Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The grass withers, the life is ended, 
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. 
The hour is short, the span not long. 
The swan's near death— man's life is done. 

Like the bubble in the brook. 

Or in a glass much like a look. 

Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand. 

Or like the writing on the sand. 

Or like a thought, or like a dream. 

Or like the gliding of the stream — 

Even such is man. who lives by breath, 

Is here, now there, in life and death. 
The bubble's out, the look forgot. 
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot. 
The thought is past, the dream is gone. 
The waters glide — man's life is done. 

Like an arrow from the bow. 

Or like the swift course of water flow. 

Or like the time 'twixt flood and ebb 

Or like a spider's tender web. 

Or like a race, or like a goal. 

Or like the dealing of a dole — 

Even such is man. whose brittle state 

Is always subject unto fate. 

The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent. 
The time no time, the web soon rent. 
The race soon run, the goal soon won. 
The dole soon dealt — man's life soon done. 

Like to the lightning from the .sky. 
Or like a post that quick doth hie. 
Or like a quaver in a song. 
Or like a journey three days long. 
Or like snow when summer's come. 
Or like a pear, or like a plum — 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



2/7 



Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, 
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. 
The lightning's past, the post must go. 
The song is short, the journey so. 
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall. 
The snow dissolves, and so must all. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



MORTALITY. 

Oh, thou wreck of a form once divine. 
Stranded here on the shore of life's sea, 

What emotions awake in his breast 
Who pauses to contemplate thee ! 

Where now is that pilot, thy Soul, 

On life's voyage thy guard from each snare ? 
Is he safe in the haven of Peace. 

Or engulfed in the depths of Despair .' 

When the storm that o'erwhelmed thee arose. 
At the will of the all-ruling Power, 

And swift came the tempest of death 

Wert thou ready to meet that dread hour ? 

Didst thou strive in the cause that was just. 
With the vigor and ardor of youth .' 

With honor thy helm, didst thou steer 
Ever on towards the beacon of truth } 

Didst thou scorn what was selfish and base ? 

Didst thou fight for the true and the right .>- 
Oh, if it were thus, then again 

Shalt thou float on the Rivers of Light! 

Once, perchance, from this grim hollow skull, 
In the pride of thy swift-speeding days. 

Shone the flame of an intellect, bright 
With the purest, serenest of rays. 

Once, with graces of form and of mind. 
It may be thou wert dear to some heart ; 

But now, in thy mouldering decay. 
How dread, how repulsive thou art ! 

Ah. to thee let the vain beauty come. 
And the miser who toils but for gold, 

To again read that sermon, so trite 
To the ear — to the heart never old ! 

Oh, thou wreck of a form once divine. 

Stranded here on the shore of life's sea, 
What a lesson thou teachest to him 

Who pauses to contemplate thee ! 

MARTIN J. FLEMING. 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring- 
swain. 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay 'd ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy g^een. 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; 
How often ha\-e I paused on every charm. 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, [hill, 

The decent church, that topp'd the neighboring 
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! 
How often have I blest the coming day 
When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contendmg as the old survey'd : 
And many a gambol frolic'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went 

round; 
And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd : 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. 
While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 
The matron's glance that would those looks 
reprove ; — [like these, 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence 
shed, — [are fled ! 

These were thy charms — but all these charms 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries; 



2 78 



POEMS OF REFLECJioy. 



Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass oertops the mould ring wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from a tyrant's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay ; 
Princes or lords may llourish or may fade, 
A breath can make them as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their county's pride. 
If once destroy 'd can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health. 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose. 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied. 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty made to bloom. 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful 

scene. 
Lived in each look and brighten'd all the green ; 
These, far departing, seek a kindlier shore. 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn I parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power; 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds, 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 
In all my wanderings found this world of care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the llame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes— for pride attends us still- 
Amidst the swains to show my book-Icarncd skill, 
AroanJ mv lire an evening group to dr;iw. 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And. as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
1 still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 



O blest retirement, friend to life's declme. 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try; 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. 
For him no wretches, bom to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ; 
No surly poster stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate. 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
.\ngels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay, 
W'liile resignation gently slopes the way; 
.\nd all his prospects bright'ning to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close. 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes come soften'd from below ; 
[ The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
1 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
I The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the f)ool. 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring 

wind. 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail. 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. 
But all the bloomy flush of life is dead. 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing. 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring. 
She, wretched matron, forc'd in age, for bread. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left off all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows 

wild ; [close, 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place dis- 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his 

place ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 



79 



Unskilful \\z to fawn, or seek for power, 
liy doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to riie, 
His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
He chid their wand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; 
The long- remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims al- 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, [low'd; 
Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields 
were won. [glow ; 

Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side; 
But in his duty prompt at every call. 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, 
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd. 
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control. 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to 

raise. 
And his last fait 'ring accents whisper'd praise. 
At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With steady zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd with endearing wile. 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's 

smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd. 
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares dis- 
tress 'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 
storm, [spread. 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The \-illage master taught his little school ; 
A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
I knew him well, and every truant knew; 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper circling round, 
Convey 'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd ; 
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declar'd how much he knew, 
'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too , 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge ; 
In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill. 
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
While w-ords of learned length, and thund'ring 

sound, 
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. 
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 
inspir'd, 

I Where grey-beard mirth, and smiling toil retir'd ; 

1 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks pro- 

I found. 

And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place ; 
The white-washed wall, the nicely-sanded floor. 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day. 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay. 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 

I Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten 'd in a row. 
Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ! 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 

j An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 

I Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 



28o 



J'OEMS OF REFLECTION. 



No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconlin'd. 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array 'd. 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy .' 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the Hmits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. 
And rich men (lock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supply 'd ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage and hounds ; 
The robe that wrajis his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their 

growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the worid supplies. 
While thus the land s adorn'd for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past, for charms are 
frail. 



When time advances, and when lovers fail. 

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 

In all the glaring impotence of dress. 

Thus fares the land by luxury betray 'd ; 

In nature's simplest charms at first array 'd. 

But verging to decline, its splendors rise 

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 

While scourged by famine from the smiling land. 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 

The country blooms— a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray 'd 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
.And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. 
If to the city sped— What waits him there? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
■fo see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
F.xtorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps 

display. 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight 

reign. 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ?— Ah, turn thine 

eyes 
Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distresl : 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. 
Now lost to all : her friends, her virtue fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, , 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the 

shower. 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 
When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
She left her wheel and robes of country brown. 
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 



THE TRAVELLER. 



E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between. 
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward rav. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance 

crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wail their hapless prey. 
And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy vested green. 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that part- 
ing day 
That called them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, [last, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
-His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree. 
How ill-exchang'd are things like these for thee I 
How do thy potions with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 



Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 

Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 

Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. [sail, 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
.A.nd kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety, with wishes plac'd above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
-Vnd thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 
That found'st me poor at first and keep'st me so; 
Thou guide by which the noble arts excel. 
Thou muse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ! and O ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambarnarca's side. 
Whether where equinoxial fervors glow, 
<3r winter wraps the Polar world in snow. 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



THE TRAVELLER ; 

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Corinthian boor 
Against the homeless stranger shuts the door ; 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies ; — 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see. 
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee : 
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain. 
And drajjs at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; 
niest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ! 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
.And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
IJlest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned. 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food. 
And learn the luxury of doing good I 

But me, not destined such delights to share. 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care, 
Compelled, with steps unceasir.g, to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view; 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far. yet, as I follow, flies; 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone,- 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 
ii'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high, above the storm's career. 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear; 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

When thus creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine.' 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom 

vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind, [crowned, 
Ye glittering towns with wealth and splendor 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; 
For me your tributary stores combine : 
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recoimts it o'er ; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, [plies; 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man sup- 



Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
I To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
i And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consigned, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below. 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
j The naked negro, panting at the line, 
1 Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam. 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share. 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given. 
To different nations makes their blessing even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 

Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; 
, With food as well the peasant is supplied 
I On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 

And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 
' These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. 

From art more various are the blessings sent ; 

Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 
I Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 
j That either seeins destructive of the rest, [fails ; 

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment 

And honor sinks where commerce long prevails ; 
I Hence every state to one loved blessing prone, 
j Conforms and models life to that alone. 
] Each to the favorite happiness attends. 

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 
I 'Till carried to e.xcess in each domain. 
i This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

I But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies; 
Here for a while my proper cares resigned. 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 

j That shades the deep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
: Bright as the summer, Italy extends, 



THE TRAVELLER. 



28; 



Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side. 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ; 
While oft some temple's mould 'ring tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes were found. 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear. 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 

And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. 

In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 

Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 

Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; 

Tho' poor, luxurious ; tho' submissive, vain ; 

The' grave, yet trifiing; zealous, yet untrue; 

And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 

All evils here contaminate the mind, 

That opulence departed leaves behind ; 

For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date. 

When commerce proudly flourished through tlie 

state ; 
At her command the palace learnt to rise. 
Again the long-fallen column sought the skies ; 
The canvas glowed beyond e'en Nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teemed with human form, 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. 
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 
While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found with fruitless skill 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen 
An easy compensation seem to find. [mind 

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed. 
The paste-board triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions formed for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled. 

I The sports of children satisfy the child ; 

j Each nobler aim, represt by long control. 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 



While low delights succeeding fast behind. 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : [sway. 
As in those domes, where Cicsars once bore 
Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed : 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile. 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion 

tread. 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; 
No product here the barren hills afford. 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 
Yet still, e'en here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Tho' poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loath his vegetable meal : 
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. 
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 
Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 
With patient angle trolls the tinny deep, [steep ; 
Or drives his venturous plough-share to the 
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the 
And drags the struggling savage into day. [way, 
At night returning, every labor sped. 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard. 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 
' And haply, too, some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 
Thus every good his native wilds impart. 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills, that round his mansion rise. 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the .storms; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
So the loud torrent, and the whiriwind's roar. 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 



.-.S4 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Such are the charms to barren states assigned ; 
Their wants but few, their wishes all conlined. 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few; 
For ever)' want that stimulates the breast. 
Dccomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science 

flies. 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy. 
To till the languid |)ause with finer joy ; | flame, 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate thro' the frame. 
Their level life is but a mouldering fire, 
Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low. 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unaltered, unimproved the manners run : 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed d.irt 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play [way, 
Thro' life's more cultured walks, and charm the 
These, far dispersed on timorous pinions fly. 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can 

please. 
How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire.' 
Where shading elms along the margin grew. 
And freshened from the wave the zephyr flew; 
And haply, tho' my harsh touch faltering still. 
But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's 

skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous ])ower. 
And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. 
Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
Have led their children thro' the mirthful maze. 
And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore. 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display. 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; 



Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honor forms the social temper here. 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traflic round the land ; 
From courts to camp«, to cottages it strays. 
And all are taught an avarice of praise ; 
They plea.se, are pleased, they give to get esteem 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies. 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought. 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought. 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies. 
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand. 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land. 
And sedulous to stop the coming tide. 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward methinks. and diligently slow. 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. 
While the pent ocean rising o'er the pile. 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale. 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil. 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs. 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here displayed. Their much-lov'd wealth im- 
Convenience, plenty, elegance and arts ; [parts 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear. 
E'en liberty itself is bartered here. 



THE TRAVELLER. 



285 



At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 
And calmly bent, to servitude conform. 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 
Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now, 

Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide ; 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state 
With daring aims irregularly great ; 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right above control, — [scan. 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here; 
Thine are thooe charms that dazzle and endear : 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
But, fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy; 
That independence Britons prize too high. 
Keeps man from man. and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; 
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled ; 
Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar. 
Repressed ambition struggles round her shore. 
Till overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst : as nation's ties decay. 
As duty, love and honor fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
Stilt gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
The time may come when, stripped of all her 

charms. 
The land of scholars and the nurse nf arms. 



Where nobler stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, [fame. 

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonored die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings or court the great ; 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire I 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel ; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun, — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure. 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That those that think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
Is but to lay proportioned loads on each ; 
Hence, should one order disproportioned grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
E.xcept when fast-approaching danger warms ; 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne. 
Contracting regal powers to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free. 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law. 
The wealth of climes where savage nations roam 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home,— 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
Tear off reserve and bare my swelling heart. 
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour 

When first ambition struck at regal power ; 

And thus, polluting honor at its source, 

Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 

Have we not seen, round Britaifi's peopled shore. 

Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore .' 

Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste. 

Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste } 

Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 

Lead stern depopulation in her train. 

And over fields where scattered hamlets rose 

In barren, solitary pomp repose } 

Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 

The smiling, oft frequented village fall .? 



286 



POEMS OF REFLECTION. 



Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed, 
Tne modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western main. 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamp around. 
I And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 
E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Thro' tangled forests and thro' dangerous ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
And the brown Indian marks with murd'rousaim: 
There, while around the giddy tempest flies. 
And all around distressful yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe. 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine. 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind ; 
Why have I strayed from pleasures and repose. 
To seek a good each government bestows .' 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that hu:nan hearts endure. 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ' 
Still to ourselves in every place consigned. 
Our own felicity we make or find ; 
With secret force which no loud storms annoy 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe. the agonizing wheel. 
Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. 
To men remote from power but rarely known. 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience ail our own 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Like an ill- judging beauty, his colors he spread. 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the suge he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that when he was off, he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day ; 
Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack. 
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle 
them back. [came. 

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what 
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 

OLIVER GOLIJSMITII 
— From ** Rttaiiation.'* 



ON BURKE. 



ON GARRICK. 
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; 
Yet. with talents like these, and an excellent 

heart. 
The man had his failings ;— a diiptf to his art. 



Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was 

such 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who. born for the universe, narrowed his mind. 
And to party gave up what was meant for man- 
kind ; [his throat 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining 
To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him 
a vote; [refining; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on 
And thought of convincing while they thought 

of dining ; 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot too cool, for a drudge disobedient. 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient ; 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, 

sir. 
To eat mutton cold, and split blocks with a razor. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
— From ** Retaliation.^* 



* I-ord Sydney. 



PART V. 

POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



Do you remember all the sunny places, 

Where in bright days long past we played together .- 
Do you remember all the old home faces 

That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather ? 
Do you remember all the happy meetings 

In summer evenings round the open door — 
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings 

And clasping hands whose pulsings beat no more ? 
Do you remember them ? 

Do you remember when we first departed 

From all the old companions who were round us, 
How very soon again we grew light-hearted. 

And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us? 
And after, when our footsteps were returning. 

With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain. 
How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning. 

To think how soon we'd be at home again ? 
Do you remember this ? 

Do you remember how the dreams of glory 

Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure ; 
How we thought less of being famed in story. 

And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure .' 
Do you remember in far countries weeping 

When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought tominil 
OKI happy thoughts which till that hour were sleeping. 

And made us yearn for those we left behind ? 
Do you remember this? 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT and RETROSPECTION, 



THE RUBY RING. 

Dear brother, when the listless pen 

Sways idly in my wearied lingers, 
And round my throbbing heart and brain 

No ray of brighter fancy lingers, 
I catch the sparkle of the stone 

That speaks of friendship undecaying. 
And straight the clouds aside are thrown— 

A fresher light is round me playing. 

They say that talismans of old 

Protected from all hidden dangers 
That spirits lay within the gold, 

At once protectors and avengers. 
The ring you gave, like these, may prove 

The bane of grief, the source of pleasure ; 
For all is pleasing that can move 

Remembrance of an absent treasure. 

Like friendship's fire, the brilliant toy. 

Deep set in memory's golden circle. 
Throws back the ruddy beam of joy, 

And in the dullest night will sparkle. 
The ring, like memory — endless both— 

Its warmth from out my heart is getting. 
And, like myself, of foreign growth. 

Rejoices in a Yankee setting. 

My muse— a v^'oman, and you know 

The female heart inclines to jewels — 
Whene'er she wants " full speed " to go. 

Her engine at the ruby fuels. 
The pistons of alternate rhyme 

Move up and down with steady motion ; 
The train of thought, defying time. 

Speeds on tlirough earth, and air, and ocean. 

The Koh-i-noor in Bntain's crown 
Is India's blood-mark set upon her ; 

The sapphire clasp of beauty's gown 
Perchance was purchased by dishonor. 



The miser's gold is dim with tears. 

And rusted thick vyith cent, per centage ; 

My ring, then, clearly it appears, 
O'er these can claim immense advantage. 



The lips, by Cyprian Venus planned, 

Convey love's telegraphic greeting. 
But friendship meets us hand to hand. 

To feel how cither's pulse is beating. 
And on ttiat hand this ring I hold. 

As prized as talisman by dervis, 
And may that hand be proud and cold 

When 'tis not warmly at thy service. 



LIFE'S YOUNG DAY. 

When filled with thoughts of life's young day. 
Alone in distant climes we roam. 

And year on year has rolled away. 
Since last we viewed our island home, 

O then, at evening's silent hour. 

In chamber lone or moonlit bower, 
I How sad on memory's listening ear 
i Come long lost voices sounding near 
' Like the wild chime of village bells 

Heard far away in mountain dells. 

But, oh ! for him let kind hearts grieve, 
I His term of youth and e.xile o'er. 
Who sees in life's declining eve, 
I With altered eyes, his native shore ! 
With aching heart and weary brain, 
Who treads those lonesome scenes again. 
And backward views the sunny hours 
When first he knew those ruined bowers. 
And hears in every passing gale 
Some best affection's dying wail. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



O say what spell of power serene 

Can clicer that liour of sharpest pain. 
And turn to peace the anguish keen 

That deeplier wounds because 'tis vain? 
"Tis not the thought of glory won. 
Of hoarded gold or pleasures gone. 
Hut one bright course, from earliest youth, 
t)f changeless faith, unbroken truth;— 
These turn to gold the vapors dun 
That close on life's descending sun. 

UKRALU gkikhn 



BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 

O, your hands they are strangely fair! 
Fair for the jewels that sparkle there — 
I'air for the witchery of the spell 
That ivory keys alone can tell ; 
Hut when their delicate touches rest 
Here in my verse do I love them best ; 
And 1 clasp with eager acquisitive spans 
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands.' 

Marvellous — wonderful — beautiful hands ; 
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
Of your brown tresses ; and ribbons will twine, 
Under mysterious touches of thine, 
Into such knots as entangle the soul, 
And fetter the heart under such a control 
As only the strength of my love understands 
My passionate love for your beautiful hands' 

As I remember the first fair touch 
Of the beautiful hands that I love so much, 
1 seen\ to thrill as I then was thrilled. 
Kissing the glove I had fouml unfilled — 
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow 
As you said, half laughingly. " Keej) it now I 
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand 
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand I 

When first I lovetl in the long ago. 
And held your hand as I told you so- 
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss 
And said. " I could die for a hand like this ! "— 
Little I dreamed that Love's fulness yet 
Had to ripen when eyes were wet 
And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 

Beautiful hands ! O beautiful hands ! 
Could you reach out of the alien lands 
Where you are lingering, and give me. to-night. 
Only a touch— were it ever so light — 



My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 
Would lull itself into rest again— 
For there is no pleasure the world commands 
Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 

JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY. 



THEOCRITUS. 

Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain. 
And mourning mingles with their fountains' song. 
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long. 
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus-plain ; 
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain ; 
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong, 
Done by the gods when gods and men were 

strong, 
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain ; 
O sweetest singer of the olden days, 
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead, 
The gods are gone, but poets never die ; 
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, 
Sicilian nightingales enraptured 
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. 

MAURICK V. EGAN. 



WAITING FOR THE GRAPES. 

That 1 love thee, charming maid 

1 a thousand times have said. 
And a thousand times more I have sworn it ; 

Hut 'tis easy to be seen. 

In the coldness of your mien, 
I'hat you doubt my affection or scorn it. 

Ah me ! 

Not a single grain of sense is 

In the whole of these pretences 

l"or rejecting your lover's petitions ; 

i Had I windows in my bosom, 

O, how gladly I'd expose 'em, 

To undo your f:\ntastic suspicions ! 

Ah me ! 

You repeat I've known you long. 

And you hint I do you wrong 
In beginning so late to pursue ye. 

But 'tis folly to look glum 

Because people did not come 
Up the stairs of your nursery to woo ye. 

Ah me ! 



ITALIAN MYRTLES. 



291 



In a grapery one walks 

Without looking at the stalks, [bearing ; 
While the bunches are green that they're 

All the pretty little leaves 

That are dangling at the eaves 
Scarce attract e'en a moment of staring, 

Ah me ! 

But when time has swelled the grapes 
To a richer style of shapes, 
And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes, 
Then to cheer us and to gladden, 
To enchant us and to madden. 
Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes. 

Ah me ! 

O, 'tis then tliat mortals pant 

While they gaze on Bacchus' plant, 
O, 'tis then — will my simile serve ye ? 

Should a damsel e'er repine, 

Though neglected like a vine ? 
Both ere long shall turn heads topsy-turvv ! 
Ah me ! 

WILLIAM MAGINN. 



THE SINGER'S PLEA. 

"Why do I sing ? " 1 know not why, my friend ; 
The ancient rivers, rivers of renown, 
A royal largess to the sea roll down. 
And on those liberal highways nations send 
Their tributes to the world, — stored corn and wine, 
Gold-dust, the wealth of pearls, and orient spar. 
And myrrh, and ivory, and cinnabar, 
And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. 
But in the woodlands, where the wild flowers are, 
The rivulets, they must have their innocent will, 
Who all the summer hours are singing still ; 
The birds care for them, and sometimes a star. 
And should a tired child rest beside the stream 
Sweet memories would slide into his dream. 

EDWARD DOWDEN. 



WISE PASSIVENESS. 

Think you I choose or that or this to sing.' 
I lie as patient as yon wealthy stream. 
Dreaming among green fields its summer dream. 
Which takes whate'er the gracious hours will 
Into its quiet bosom ; not a thing [bring- 

Too common, since perhaps you see it there 
Who else had never seen it, though as fair 



As on the world's first morn ; a fluttering 
Of idle butterflies ; or the deft seeds 
Blown from a thistle-head ; a silver dove 
As faultlessly ; or the large, yearning eyes 
Of pale Narcissus ; or beside the reeds 
A shepherd seeking lilies for his love, 
And ever more the all-encircling skies. 

EDWARD DOWDEN. 



THE RECUSANT. 

You swore me an oath when the grass was green. 

To win me a royal dower, 
To take me hence to the altar, I ween. 

And thence beyond their power. 

By St. Berach's staff, and St. Ruadan's bell. 

And by all the oaths in heaven. 
You swore to love me, when spring was green, 

While breath to your body was given. 

And your faith has flown ere the corn is ripe. 
And your love ere the leaves do fall — 

I am not treated as queen or wife, 
Or honored or dowered at all. 

Oh ! false and fair and tickle of faith. 

Nor lover nor name need I ; 
I have had young lovers true to the death. 

And others who shall not die. 

I shall be wooed when the spring is green, 

I shall win me a royal dower, 
And my true lovers all, ere long, I ween, 

Shall save me from your power. 

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



ITALIAN MYRTLES. 

By many a soft Ligurian bay 

The myrtles glisten green and bright. 
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day. 

And glow with fire-flies thro' the night ; 
And yet, despite the cold and heat, 
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 

There is an island in the West, 

Where living myrtles bloom and blow, 

Hearts where the fire-fly Love may rest 
Within a paradise of snow — 

Which yet, despite the cold and heat, 

Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 



292 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



Deep in tliat gcnlle breast cf i;<i;ie. 
Like fire arfd snow witliin the pearl. 

Let purity and Ijve combine, 
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl ! 

And in the cold, and in the heat, 

B; ever fresh and pure and sweet 

Thy bosom bears as pure a snow 
As e'er Italia's bowers can boast ; 

And thoujh no fire-fly lends its glow, 
As on the soft Ligurian coast, 

'Tis warmed by an internal heat 

Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. 

The fire-flies fade on misty eves — 

The inner fires alone endure ; 
Like to the rain that wets the leaves. 

Thy very sorrows keep thee pure. 
They temper a too ardent heat, 
And keep thee ever pure and sweet. 

DF.XIS FLORENCE McCARTHV. 



STRADA SAN GIOVANNL 

'Twas a quiet little by-way, 

Steep and rugged as Parnassus, 
Leading from the noisy highway 
Filled with carbonari asses. 
Lofty houses lean above it 

Whispering like neighbors canny ; 
Still in memory 1 love it, 
Dingy Strada San Giovanni. 

Shrined in niches on the comers, 

Saints and martyrs smile down grimly 
On tlie unbelieving scorners 

Stalking through the twilight dimly. 
Going no one knoweth whither 

By the Casa Frangipani, 
Where the votive flowers wither, 

Down in Strada San Giovanni. 

When the summer days were weary 

With the breathings of sirocco 
Bbwing with persistence dreary, 

Red and sultry from Morocco ; 
Quiet was that shady ally 

Where there were not passers many. 
Like an ancient Jliff-walled valley. 

Lonely Strada San Giovanni. 



With her cushion making laces. 

Deftly working like a fairy. 
Fairest of the island graces, 

Little Annie Cammellieri 
Sat upon a doorstep singing. 

Giving little heed to any. 
To and fro her bobbins flinging 

In old Strada San Giovanni. 

Gentle dark-eyed little maiden, 

Dream of unforgotten pleasure, 
With her tresses coin-o'erladen. 

All her dowry and her treasure; 
Long ago, — while multiplying 

Shadows gather thick and many- 
Still a sunbeam, time defying. 

Shines in Strada San Giovanni. 

CARROLL RYAN. 



THE SUNLIT PATH. 
I pity those who sing and sigh 
Of happy days long smce gone by ; 
Whose only thoughts of joy are cast 
Upon the memories of the past ; 
Whose sole delight is with the hours 
Too swiftly fled in love's young bowers. 
As though advancing years had brought 
No trusting heart, no lovelit thought. 
No magic touch, no balmy word. 
No face still through the years adored, 

Alas, alas, 

That life should pass 
Thus, lifeless as a face on glass. 
Thro' shine and shade the changeless ray 
Of love brings blessings every day. 

Tho' bright, 'tis not in boyhood's fire 

Is found the flame of man's desire ; 

Nor in the maiden's fancy free 

The woman's proud idolatry. 

Young love but breathes the yearning tones 

By which the soul a presence owns 

That, lit by Faith, may lead the heart 

To find on earth heaven's counterpart. 

This has no past, no age, no tears. 

It suits all seasons and all years 1 

Alas. alas. 

'Tis best life pass 
Thus, like the sunshine thro' the glass. 
Through weal and woe along life's way. 
True love brings sunlight every day. 

JOHN SAVAGE 



EVENING SOLACE. 



293 



A MORNING DREAM. 



Here, far removed from meadows green, 

From tranquil shade or woodland lawns, 
I in my attic lie alone. 

And dream the while the morning dawns. 
About my brain there flit like birds, 

Thoughts of a past surpassing fair ; 
I hear old unforgotten words, 

Remembered footsteps on the stair. 

This is my fairest, happiest time. 

This moment of my morning dream. 
Before I hear the unwelcome chime 

That sounds more oft in gloom than gleam. 
I see the lilies fair and white. 

That gently swayed in that still place, 
Half garden, half a desert bright. 

Where last I saw you face to face. 

1 see you as you stood ; I hear 

Your voice that mingled with the birds'. 
And all the sounds afar and near, 

Making a prelude to your words. 
I look beyond, across the wold, 

To where the windmill stood and hurled 
Its giant arms that turned and rolled 

In dizzy motion, quickly whirled. 



I see the pigeons wheeling high 

Above our heads — the golden bees. 
Treasured with honey-laden thigh. 

Like winged insect argosies. 
I see it all ; it fades and dies 

Into the gray of waking hours. 
As rainbows fade in summer skies. 

Whose brilliant colors mocked the flowers. 

O, weary light ! that comes to glad 

A hundred hearts, no smile you bring 
To me, whose heart, though now so sad. 

Was once as light as swallow's wing. 
O fields ! where never more my feet 

Shall tread, as in the long ago. 
In dreams I smell your fragrance sweet. 

And see the corn-flowers sway and blow. 

WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 



SPIRIT COMPANY. 

Up cheerful as the morn I rise, 
Though foreign airs around me blow. 

For well I deem that Spirit eyes 
Look into mine where'er I go : 



So, in the viny window nook. 
With southern sunlight round, I sit 

And read aloud from some old book. 
Old music lines of poet wit, 

That those 1 love around may hear me. 

And melt in sweet mute laughter near me. 

With them I stroll all day along 

The fresh blue bay and sunny shore. 
And hear the brown old fisher's song. 

Above his nets hummed o'er and o'er; 
And wander up the evening cliffs, 

Askirted by the shadowy limes ; 
And as I watch the fading skiffs, 

I whisper oft of loved old times. 
That those I love around may hear me. 
And smile with gentle memories near me. 

And when the golden sunset dips 

Beneath the garden's walnut trees, 
In vintage gay I bathe my lips. 

Till the white star floats up the seas; 
Then as upon the hill o'erhead, 

The quiet shepherd pens his fold, 
I sit among the stilly Dead, 

And sing the songs they loved of old. 
And hear their echoes grown divine. 
Come back thro' this waked heart of mine. 

But when o'er hill and ocean soon 

Falls the deep midnight blue and rare. 
And tolling bell and rounded moon 

Awake the tranced time of prayer — 
Through starry casement lone I gaze 

Up on the heavenly path they've trod. 
And murmur o'er their love and praise, 

With lowly knees before our God ; 
And hear — as though beyond the sea. 
The loved Old Voices pray for me. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



EVENING SOL'.CE. 

The human heart has hidden treasures, 

In secret kept, in silence sealed, — [ures. 

The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleas- 

Whose charms were broken if revealed. 
And days may pass in gay confusion. 

And nights in rosy riot fly. 
While, lost in fame's or wealth's illusion. 

The memory of the past may die. 



294 



POEXfS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



But there are hours of lonely musing, 

Such as in evening silence come, ' 

When, soft as birds their pinions closing. 

The heart's best feelings gather home. 
Then in our souls there seems to languish 

A tender grief that is not woe ; 
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish i 

Now cause but some mild tears to flow, , 

And feelings, once as strong as passions. 

Float softly back— a faded dream, 
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations. 

The tales of others' sufferings seem. 
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding. 

How longs it for that time to be. 
When, through the mists of years receding. 

Its woes but live in reverie ! 

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer 

Or evening shade and loneliness ; 
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer. 

Feel no untold and strange distress :— 
Only a deeper impulse given 

By lonely hour and darkened room, 
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, 

Seeking a life and world to come. 

CHARLOTTE BRUNTE. 



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft, in the stilly night. 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
Fond memory brings the light 
Of other days around me ; 
The smiles, the tears. 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken ; 
The eyes that shone. 
Now dimni'd and gone. 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so link'd together. 
I've seen around me fall. 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
1 feel like one 
Who treads alone 



Some banquet hall deserted. 

Whose lights are fled, 

Whose garlands dead. 

And all but he departed ! 

Thus, in the stilly night. 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me. 
Sad memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

THOMAS MOORE. 



CHARITY. 



Charity was a little child. 
Blue-eyed, beautiful, and mild ; 
Full of love and full of light. 
As the moon is to the night. 
Tiny foot and snowy hand- 
Little carved ivory wand- 
Little osier basket white- 
Little vase of something bright. 
Hid in dress quite cunningly. 
Had the sweet child. Charity ! 

Where the aged tottered on- 
Weak and haggard, cold and wan ; 
Loit'ring in the cheering sun. 
Shivering in the rayless moon. 
Wrinkled o'er by icy time. 
Moaning for his faded prime, 
Wrapp'd in r^gs and wretchedness. 
Lying down in hopelessness ; 
With vase and basket there would be 
The beautiful child, Charity ! 

Where the sick were like to die. 
Unheeded all by human eye, 
Parching with the bleeding mouth. 
Gasping with the burning drought. 
Sleepless, raving— sorc-opprest, 
Staring eye and heaving breast. 
Deserted, sad, and comfortless. 
In that lone and last distress ; 
With vase and basket there would be 
The beautiful child. Charity ! 
With her osier basket white ; 
With her vase of something bright. 
Hid in her dress quite cunningly— 
God-loved — pure child— Charity ! 

JOHN T. CAMPION. 



THE OLDEN TIME. 



295 



CHARITY TO MAN. 



O sweeter than the fragrant flower 

At evening's dewy close, 
The will, united with the power. 

To succor human woes ! 

And softer than the softest strain 

Of music to the ear. 
The placid joy we give and gain 

By gratitude sincere. 

The husbandman goes forth a-field : 
What hopes his heart expand ! 

What calm delights his labors yield — 
A harvest, from his hand ! — 

A hand that providently throws. 

Not dissipates in vain ; 
How neat his field, how clean it grows ! 

What produce from each grain ! 

The nobler husbandry of mind. 

And culture of the heart — 
Shall this with men less favor find. 

Less genuine joy impart ? 

O ! no ; your goodness strikes a root 

That dies not, nor decays ; 
And future life shall yield the fruit 

Which blossoms now in praise. 

The youthful hopes that now expand 
Their green and tender leaves. 

Shall spread a plenty o'er the land. 
In rich and yellow sheaves. 

Thus, a small bounty, well bestowed. 
May perfect heaven's plan ; — 

First daughter to the love of God 
Is charity to man. 

'Tis he who scatters blessings round 

Adores his Maker best ; 
His walk thro' life is mercy-crowned. 

His bed of death is blest. 

WILLIAM DRENNAr 



SYMPATHY. 
Wert thau sad, I would beguile 

Thy sadness by my tender lay ; 
Wert thou in a mood to smile. 

With thee laugh the hours away ; 
Didst thou feel inclined to sleep, 

I would watch and hover near ; 
Did misfortune bid thee weep, 

I would give thee tear for tear. 



Not a sigh that heaved thy breast 

But I'd echo from my own; 
Did one care disturb thy rest. 

Mine, alas ! were also llown ; 
When the hour of death should come, 

I'd receive thy latest sigh ; 
Only ask to share thy tomb. 

There contented with thee die. 

MAKV -IIGHE. 



THE OLDEN TIME. 

O ! tell me a tale of the long ago. 

For I'm sick of the present time , 
Roll back the centuries like a scroll, 

And show me earth in her prime; 
And I care not whether the scene be laid 

In a sunny or golden clime ; 

But back, far back in the shadowy past. 

When aims and hopes were high. 
When life was a path to heaven, and earth 

The vestibule of the sky ;— 
O ! lay the scene in the glorious Past, 

The past that can never die ; 

When hearts were pure as the sky above. 

And hands as open as day ; 
When men were trusty, and tender, and true. 

And women as true as they ; 
And poverty never was thought a crime.' 

As it is in our evil day. 

It may be on sea, or it may be on shore, 

I care not how that may be ; 
In baron's hall, or in peasant's cot. 

Or beneath the greenwood tree, 
But a tale, a tale of the olden time 

I pray thee tell to me. 

For men are now but living graves. 

Where dead hearts buried lie. 
Though not an epitaph tells the tale 

Of how they died, or why ; — 
Oh, it was not so in the olden time. 

The blessed time gone by. 

Then the heart never died before the man. 
But was fresh and green to the last. 

And lived unwithered beneath the snows 
That time o'er his temples cast, — 1 

Ah ! mind never crushed life out of the heart 
In the underrated past. 



290 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



They believed, 'tis true, in dragons and elves, " The gloomy rain 

But in angels and spirits too ; Doth but conceal the brightness ol tlic azure 

With windmills they tilted .ind fought, but then space. 

They K.ive tyrants and knaves their due ; And start the grass-blades ; beautiful flowers 

O. this world was a pleasanter world by far apace 

When it and mankind were new. Are young again. 

So tell ine a tale of the olden time, " Each hath new birth 

When feelings were deep and true ; When skies are overcast ; when thus thy soul is 

When women thought more of duties than rights, sad. 

And men could dare and do ; 1 Thy azure's only hid ; dear love, my heart is 

j glad,— 



When faith was not follv. and all believed 



In a heaven beyond the blue. 



MARY MUl 



THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG. 
0. the days when I was young. 

When I laughed in fortune's spite : 
Talked with love the whole day long. 

And with nectar crowned the night ! 
Then it was, old Father Care. 

Little recked I of thy frown ; 
Half thy malice youth could bear. 

And the rest a bumper drown. 

Truth, they say, lies in a well. 

Why, I vow I ne'er could sec; 
Let the water-drinkers tell — 
There it always lay for mc : 
Tor when sparkling wine went round, 

Never saw I falsehood's mask ; 
But still honest truth I found 
At the bottom of each llask. 

RICHARD BRINSLKV SHKRII)A> 



SYMPATHY. 

" Sweet friend," said she, 

" I have no heart for wit, or mirth, or converse 

bright : 
My sky's o'ercast. the rain in torrents f.ills; 'tis 
night 

Of grief with me." 

But then spake I : — 
" When skies are overcast, and gray, and d.imp. 

and sad 
Are all men's thoughts, with torrents is llie earth 
made glad 
From the black skv. 



thine earth." 

MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER- 

When summer's verdant beauty flics. 

And autumn glows with richer dyes, 

A softer charm beyond them lies- 
It is the Indian summer. 

Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze 

Bereave of beauty all the trees. 

The balmy spring renewal sees 

In the sweet Indian summer. 

And thus, dear love, if early years 
Have drowned the germ of joy in tears, 
A later gleam of hope appears— 

Just like the Indian summer. 
And ere the snows of age descend. 
Oh, trust me, dear one, changeless friend. 
Our failing years may brightly end, — 

Just like the Indian summer, 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



REVISED. 

I read a legend, sweet and quaint. 
The other day. amid the faint 
Calm light of early dusk ; 
The story, odorous of musk. 
Smiled in a dust-bound olden book. 
Forgotten in a lover's nook. 

Of course you know it :— how he strove 
To shape the marble like his Love, 
Th.it ancient sculptor ; how his hand. 
Guiding the chisel like a wand. 
So perfect made each beauteous part, 
Jove breathed in it his lady's heart. 



FR/ENDS ACROSS THE SEA. 



The dainty myth in modern time 
Will serve to tell in careless rhyme : 
Our sculptor sneers there is no Jove ; 
Science hath made a myth of Love ; 
So practical the race has grown 
That even Beauty's heart is stone. 

JrARGARKT F. SULLIVAX. 



297 



Soft Peace descends to guard her reign 
From anxious fear and jealous pain ; 
She no delusive hope displays. 
But calmly guides our tranquil days. 
Refines our pleasure, soothes our care. 
And gives the joys of Eden here. 

ELIZABETH RYVES. 



I WOULD NOT DIE. 

I would not die in this bright hour. 

While Hope's sweet stream is flowing ; 
I would not die while Youth's gay flower 

In springtide pride is glowing. 
The path I trace in fiery dreams 

For Manhood's flight, to-morrow. 
Oh, let me tread 'mid those bright gleams 
Which souls from Fame \\ill borrow. 
I would not die I I would not die I 

In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; 
I would not leave, without a sigh, 
The dreams, the hopes I treasure ! 

I set young seeds in earth to-day. 

While yet the sun was gushing. 

And shall I pass, ere these, away, 

Nor see the flowerets blushing .' 

Are these young seeds, when earth looks fair. 

To rise with fragrance teeming, 
And shall the hand that placed them there 
Lie cold when they are gleaming .' 

I would not die ! I would not die ! 

In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; 
I would not leave, without a sigh. 
The dreams, the hopes I treasure ! 

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 



TO FRIENDSHIP. 

Fond Love, with all his winning wiles — 
Of tender looks and flattering smiles. 
Of accents that might Juno charm. 
Or Dian's colder ear alarm. 
No more shall play the tyrant's part. 
No more shall lord it o'er my heart. 

To Friendship, sweet benignant power, 
I consecrate my humble bower, 
My lute, my muse, my willing mind. 
And fix her in my heart enshrined ; 
She, heaven-descended queen, shall be 
My tutelar divinity. 



EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 

The half-seen memories of childish days. 
When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ; 
The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 
In fearful wanderings thro' forbidden ways ; 
The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze 
Of life to noble ends ; whereon intent. 
Asking to know for what man here is sent. 
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze ; 
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 
Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature ; 
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to 

friend 
With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; — 
My happy lot is this, that all attend 
That friendship which first came, and which 

shall last endure. 

AUBREY DE VERE. 



FRIENDS ACROSS THE SEA. 

Deep is the hush of the sweet summer night. 
The dark hills slumber in a soft repose ; 

The river glitters 'neath the moonbeams white. 
The dewdrop trembles on the folded rose, — 

Fair moon ! sweet stars ! that softly smile on me, 

Oh, smile upon my friends across the sea. 

The balmy summer breeze around me plays. 
And in a voice all tremulous and low. 

It seems to whisper me of other days, 
Sweet mournful stories of the " long ago," — 

Oh, gentle breeze that whispereth so to me. 

Go whisper to my friends across the sea. 

Tell them that never can my heart forget 
My childhood's home, my kindred far away ; 

But that with fondest love, and sad regret. 
My spirit turns to them by night and day. 

Speed, speed thee swiftly o'er the moonlit sea. 

And tell my friends the words I've told to thee. 



29S 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



But should'st thou find them locked in slumber And lo ! where afar 'mid the surry throng 
deep, A glorious orb sailed slow along 

Then blow thy softest, — let them slumber on ; 1 In his lordly pride of majestic sway. 
Hover around them— kiss them as they sleep. — , Uegirt with power like an atmosphere. 



Breathe in their cars my name — and then be- 
gone. 
Then, gentle summer breeze, they'll dream of me. 
Their lonely wanderer far across the sea. 

ELLEN FORRESTER. 



CONTRAST. 



He paused at the grave just made 
As the mourners turned to go ; 

His heart lay there in the shade 
With the one asleep below. 

On the budding limb above 

.•\ robin alert, elate. 
Sang liveliest songs of love 

L'nto his new-found mate. 

R. K. -MUNKITTRICK. 



HAUNTED. 



And the yoimg star felt as he lloated near 

The rule of the king she was formed to obey. 
A strange joy thrilled thro' her voice's tone, 

And flashed like light to her inmost core. 
To think, when bound in his glittering zone 

The awful space-depths she should fear no more. 
" He comes ! " she cried. " and 1 by his side 

Shall blessing and blest roll on thro' Time, 
And the ringing rhyme of my spirit chime 

Will sweetly blend in his song sublime." 



This iris-tinted shell 

Is breathing ceaselessly. 
With mimic surge and swell, 

The music of the sea. 

So deep within my heart 

That made an empty choice. 
Rings clear, while years depart. 

The music of her voice. 

R. K. MUNKITTRICK. I 



But the planet, unheeding, in might passed by. 

And 'mid the fair stars that gemmed his sky 
Of small avail were her tremulous beam ; 

And worthless her song with its low refrain, 
I To the full-toned swell of his choral strain, 
I As a dew-drop's fall in a rushing stream. 

I marked the cold shadow that o'er her came 
I When she knew that her path alone should be. 

And the glory gone from her being's aim 
Till Time fades into Eternity. 

The vision passed, but my tears fell fast 
For the wasted Love and vanished Bliss ; 

And I murmured low, •' There are souls I know 
Crushed here below with a woe like this." 

OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLIV. 



THE STORY OF A STAR. 

There came to my soul a vision rare. 

As 1 watched thro' a summer twilight's air 

The growing light of one trembling star. 
I looked far back to its primal birth, 
And saw it spring like a brighter Earth 

To its destined place in the ether far ; 
With a gentle guardian, a Spirit of Love, 

To temper the glow of its central fire. 
To guide it aright 'neath the Eye above. 

And utter its song 'mid the spheral choir. 
"But I never was made," she softly said, 

" To wander alone thro' the realms of space. 
Nay, rather to wait on some planet great [face." 

And brighten his night with the light of my 



BEN BOLT. 

Don't you remember sweet Alice. Ben Bolt — 

Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown — 
Who wept with delight when you gave her a 
smile. 

And trembled with fear at your frown .' 
In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 

In a corner obscure and lone. 
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 

.■\nd .Mice lies under the stone. 

Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 

Which stood at the foot of the hill. 
Together we've lain in the noon-day shade. 

And listened to Appleton's mill. 
The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 

The rafters have tumbled in, [gaze 

And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you 

Has followed the olden din. 



AFTER TEN YEARS. 



299 



Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 

By the edge of the pathless wood, | 

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs. 

Which nigh by the doorstep stood ? 
The cabin has gone to ruin, Ben Bolt, 

The tree you would seek for in vain ; 
And where once the lord of the forest waved ' 

Are grass and the golden grain. 1 

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 

With the master so cruel and grim. 
And the shaded nook in the running brook. 

Where the children went to swim ? 
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 

The spring of the brook is dry. 
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then, 

There are only you and I. 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 

They have changed from the old to the new ; 
But 1 feel in the deep of my spirit the truth 

That there never was change in you. 
Twelve months twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, 

Since first we were friends, yet I hail 
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, 

Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGI-ISH. 



Those that are dearest may cruelly grieve us. 

Bitter resentment but adds to our pain ; 
Let us be merciful, soon they may leave us — 
Let them not seek our forgiveness in vain, 

Though we have suffered long 

Under a cloud of wrong, 
They who have wounded may comfort us yet ; 

Tongues can but idly preach, — 

Only kind actions teach 
Life's noblest lesson — Forgive and forget. 

FANNY FORRESTER. 



FORGIVE AND FORGET. 

Were we but generous, kind, and forbearing. 

Soon would this earth be an Eden of flowers ; 
Then would the frowns we are constantly wearing 

Melt in the laughter of happier hours ; 
Then would a holier light 
Make life's dark pathway bright. 

Shining where anger and discord have met ; 
Then would all warfare cease. 
Angels would whisper " Peace ! " 

If we would only forgive and forget. 

When a loved friend we have thoughtlessly 
wounded 
Let us not seek his forgiveness alone ; 
Owning our error, with courage unbounded. 
Oh ! let us earnestly strife to atone — 
Conquer our pride, and then 
Hold out our hand again, 
Sure that our friend will respond to us yet ; 
Then will he haste once more — 
Knowing our wrath is o'er— 
Eager as we to forgive and forget. 



AFTER TEN YEARS. 

Like the warm winds of spring to the icicled 

trees. 
That moaned like sad ghosts all the winter 

winds through ; 
Like the first sight of land when long tossed on 

the seas ; 
Like the breath of fresh flowers to the cheek of 

disease. 
Are those sweet words that come from afar on 

the breeze, 
From thy heart to mine, my fond friend ever 

true ! 

Ah ! this decade of years, and the depth of their 

woe ! 
! Since I pressed thy white hand 'neath that 

piercing cold blast ; 
And the silence that froze all my glad spirit's 

flow. 
And the doubtings that sometimes would flit to 

and fro. 
And the dark fears, lest distance and absence 

should throw 
Some shade of forgetfulness round thee at last ! 

Oh, my friend, fondest friend of my heart — fai 
away ! 
This long-dreamed-of message is balm to my 
soul ; 
Like a sudden-found spring 'neath the parched 

desert's ray. 
It will freshen my life, and restore my lost May, 
And thy sweet eyes will smile, and thy heart will 
still pray 
For thy Brother afar, though the sad seasons 
roll! 

PATRICK CRONIN. 



300 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



WHAT'S THAT TO ANY MAN? 



May discord and treason keep far from our shore, 

, , ^ , \ And union and peace light our homes evermore ! 

ve a pound for to spend. ^^ ^J^^f for^to I ^^.^ ^^^ ^j^^ „, ^^ f^,,^^^.^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ 

man, 
I So we'll live and be merrj- as lon>; as we can ; 



[lend, I 



Caed millc failthe. a heart for a friend; 
No mortal 1 envy, nor master 1 own. 

Nor lord in his castle, nor king on his throne. • ,^ 'w v . u i i j .u u i j 
_ ... , ° ,- ,,, O we II chng to old Ireland through weal and 

Come, hll up your glasses, the hrst cup we II \ thrt)u 'h woe 

And what's that to any man whether or no ? 



drain 
To the comrades we've lost on the red battle 

plain ; 
O we'll cherish their fame, boys, who died long 

ago, 
And what's that to any man whether or no? 

The spinning wheel stops and my girls grow 

pale. 
While their mother is telling some sorrowful tale 
Of old cabins levell'd, and coffinless graves. 
And ships swallowed up in the salt ocean waves ; 
But, girls, that's all over for each of you now. 
You'll have twenty-tive pounds ind a three-year 

old cow. 
O we'll drink launa 'luiuitii at your weddings. 1 

trow. 
And what's that to any man whether or no ? 

Come here, Banathee, sit beside me awhile, 
And the pulse of your heart let me read in your 

smile. 
Would you give your old home for the lordliest 

hall.'' 
Ha ! you glance at my rifle that hangs on the 

wall. 
And your two gallant boys on parade-day are 

seen 
In the ranks of the brave 'neath the banner of 

green ; 
O I've taug'nt them to guard it 'gainst traitor 

and foe. 
And what's that to any man whether or no? 

But the youngest of all is the white-headed boy. 
He's the pulse of your heart, and our pride and 

our joy. I 

From the huriing or dance he will steal off to j 

pray. 
And wander alone by the river all day ; 
He's as good as the priest at his Latin, I hear, 1 
And to college, please God. we will send him 1 

ne.xt year. 
O he'll offer the Mass for our souls when we go, ' 
And what's that to any man whether or no ? 

Join hands, then, old neighbor, one cup more 

we'll drain, 
And caed mille failtlie again and again. | 



CHARLES J. KlLKHA.M. 



THE CLADDAGH BOATMAN. 

I am a Claddagh boatman bold. 

And humble is my calling. 
From morn to night, from dark to light. 

In Galway bay I'm trawling; 
I care not for the great man's frown, 

I ask not for his pity. 
My wants are few, my heart is true. 

1 sing a boatman's ditty. 

1 have a fair and gentle wife. 

Her name is Eily Holway ; 
With many a wile, and joke, and smile, 

1 won the prize of Galway ; 
For twenty years, 'mid hopes and fears, 

With her I've faithful tarried ; 
Her heart to-night is young and light. 

As when we first were married. 

I have a son, a gallant boy, 

U nsiained by spot or speckle ; 
He pulls and hawls, and mends the trawls, 

.And minds the other tackle ; 
His mother says the boy. like ine. 

Loves truth, and hates all blarney — 
The neighbors swear in Galway bay 

There's not the like of Barney. 

Thank God. I have another child. 

Like Eily, lithe and slender; 
She clasps my knee and kisses me 

With love so true and tender ; 
Though oft will rage the howling blast 

Upon the angry water. 
I ne'er complain of wind or rain. 

For I think of my little daughter. 

When Sunday brings the hour of rest. 

That sweet reward of labors. 
We cross the fields to early Mass 

And walk home with the neighbors. 



THE IRISH PEASANT MAIDEN. 



O, would the rest of Erin's sons 

Were but like us united ; 
I'm loath to swear, but by my oath, • 

Her name should not be slighted. 

JEREMIAH J. BOWLING. 



THE OLD BOREEN. 

Embroidered with shamrocks and spangled with 
daisies. 
Tall fcxgloves like sentinels guarding the way, 
The squirrel and hare played bo-peep in its mazes, 
The green hedgerows wooed it with odorous 
spray ; 
The thrush and the linnet piped overtures in it ; 
The sun's golden rays bathed its bosom of 
green. 
Bright scenes, fairest skies, pall to-day on my eyes, 
For I opened them first on an Irish boreen ! 

It flung o'er my boyhood its beauty and gladness. 

Rich homage of perfume and color it paid ; 
It laughed with my joy — in my moments of sad- ' 
ness, 
What solace I found in its pitying shade ! 
When Love, to my rapture, rejoiced in my cap- 
ture. 
My fetters the curls of a brown-haired colleen. 
What draught from his chalice, in mansion or 
palace, 
So sweet as I quaffed in the dear old boreen ? 

But green fields were blighted and fair skies be- 
clouded. 
Stern frost and harsh pain mocked the poor 
peasant's toil ; 
Ere they burst into blossom the buds were en- 
shrouded, 
The seed ere its birth crushed in merciless soil ; 
Wild tempests struck blindly, the landlord, less 
kindly. 
Aimed straight at our hearts with a " death 
sentence " keen ; 
The blast shared our sheeling, which he, more 
unfeeling. 
Left roofless and bare to affright the boreen. 

A dirge of farewell through the hawthorn was 
pealing 
The wind seemed to stir branch and leaf with 
a sigh, 
As, down on a tear-bedewed shamrock sod 
kneeling, 
I kissed the boreen a fond weeping good-by. 



And vowed that should ever my patient endeavor 
The grains of success from life's harvest-field 
glean. 
Where'er fortune found me, whatever ties bound 

me. 
My eyes should be closed in the dear old boreen. 

ARTHUR M. FORRESTER. 



LET THE TOAST PASS. 

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, 

Here's to the widow of fifty ; 
Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean, 
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty : 
Let the toast pass. 
Drink to the lass ; 
I warrant she'll prove an e-xcuse for the glass. 

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize. 
And now to the maid who has none, sir ; 

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes. 

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. 
Let the toast pass, etc. 

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow. 
And to her that's as brown as a berry ; 

Here's to the wife with a face full of woe. 
And now to the girl that is merry. 
Let the toast pass, etc. 

For let 'em be clumsy or let 'em be slim. 
Young or ancient, I care not a feather ; 

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim. 
And let us e'en toast them together. 
Let the toast pass, etc. 

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 



THE IRISH PEASANT MAIDEN. 

One summer, on a walking tour, my wayward 

will my only law. 
Crossing a meadow-path, at eve, 1 saw— I'll tell 

you what I saw — 
A fair, soft-smiling Irish face, with deep-gray 

eyes and lashes long. 
And rich brown hair all streaked with gold, and 

ripe lips bursting into song — 



3o: 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



One of those songs they ever sing, those Irish 

maids, when evening falls- 
Some wild verse, passionate and strong, their 

country's woe or pride recalls ; 
Or some gay legend of their chiefs by fairy held 

in glittering thrall ; 
Or gentle tale of love and youth — the sweetest 

and the best of all ! 

Upon a woodbine-tangled hedge one sun-kissed 

arm upheld her pail. 
The milk within it foaming high to match her 

whiter throat would fail ; 
Beneath my gaze her song was hush'd, her 

brow's pure arch drawn slowly down ; 
But soon her smile's sweet sunshine burst again, 

and chased away the frown. 

And roguish dimples peeped once more, in baby- 
play, from cheek and chin. 

The rosy mouth half-oped, and showed the lovely, 
glistening pearls within. 

"Good evening, pretty girl," I cried ; "well met 
at close of sultry day ; 

A draught of milk from your kind hand, re- 
freshed will send me on my way." 

"And welcome, sir," was her reply, a quick blush 
veiling all her face ; 

Then bent the vessel to my lips with ready, un- 
pretending grace. 

My thirst allayed I lingered still beside her, 
'neath the sunset sky. 

And giving many a merry word, received as 
many an arch reply. 

Yet ever an expectant glance across the fields 

her bright eyes cast. 
Until a stout young peasant lad came hastening 

up the path at last. 
Then with good eve, I slyly said, " I see of me 

you have no need," 
She flung me back a laughing look, and nodded 

me a gay God -speed. 

'Twas scarcely fair, I freely own, yet one short 

glance I cast behind — 
Pausing as if to lift my hat, and bare my hot 

brow to the wind— 
In time to catch the eager kiss which claimed 

the shy, young, promised wife, — 
Well, well; the pair are fitly matched: God 

speed them on their way through life ! 

KATHARINE MURPHY. 



THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK. 

There's a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 

'Twas .St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; 
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile. 

And with dew from his eye often wet it. 
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, 

through the mireiand ; 
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ire- 
land. 
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 

shamrock, 
The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
Ireland. 

This dear little plant still grows in our land. 

Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, 
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can com- 
mand. 
In each climate that they may appear in ; 
And shine through the bog. through the brake, 

through the mireiand. 
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland, 
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 

shamrock. 
The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
Ireland. 

This dear little plant that springs from our soil. 

When its three little leaves are extended. 
Denotes from one stock we together should toil 

And ourselves by ourselves be befriended ; 
And still through the bog, through the brake, 

through the mireiand. 
From one root should branch, like the shamrock 
of Ireland. 
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little 

shamrock. 
The sweet little, green little shamrock of 
Ireland. 

ANDREW CHERRY. 



THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock 

In all the fairy dells. 
And if I find the charmed leaves. 

Oh. how I'll weave my spells. 
I would not waste my magic might 

On diamond, pearl or gold ; 
For treasures tire the weary sense — 

Such triumph is but cold. 



A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 



But I would play the enchanter's part 

In casting bliss around : 
Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart 

Should in the world be found, 

Should in the world be found. 

To worth I would give honor, 

I'd dry the mourner's tears ; 
And to the pallid lip recall 

The smile of happier years , 
And hearts that had long been estranged, 

And friends that had grown cold, 
Should meet again like parted streams. 

And mingle as of old. 
Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part. 

Thus scatter bliss around ; 
And not a tear nor aching heart 

Should in the world be found, 

Sliould in the world be found. 

The heart that had been mourning 

O'er vanished dreams of love. 
Should see them all returning. 

Like Noah's faithful dove. 
And Hope should launch her blessed bark 

On Sorrow's dark'ning sea, 
And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, 

And saved from sinking be. 
Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, 

Thus scatter bliss around. 
And not a tear nor aching heart 

Should in the world be found. 

Should in the world be found. 

SAMURL LOVER. 



A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 

O postman ! speed thy tardy gait — 

Go quicker round from door to door ; 
For thee I watch, for thee I wait. 

Like many a weary wanderer more. 
Thou bringest news of bale and bliss. — 

Some hfe begun, some life well o'er. — 
He stops, he rings ! O Heaven ! what's this } — 

A shamrock from the Irish shore ! 

Dear emblem of my native land. 

By fresh fond words kept fresh and green ; 
The pressure of an unfelt hand — 

The kisses of a lip unseen ; 
A throb from my dead mother's heart — 

My father's smile revived once more— 
Oh, youth ! oh, love ! oh, hope thou art. 

Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore ! 



Enchanter, with thy wand of power. 

Thou mak'st the past be present still ; 
The emerald lawn— the lime-leaved bower — 

The circling shore— the sunlit hill ; 
The grass, in winter's wintriest hours. 

By dewy daisies dimpled o'er. 
Half hiding 'neath their trembling flowers. 

The shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, 

By queenly Florence, kingly Rome — 
By Padua's long, and lone arcade- 

By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam — 
By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed 

My poet sailing calmly o'er ; 
By all, by each, I mourned and missed 

The shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

I saw the palm-tree stand aloof. 

Irresolute 'tw^ixt the sand and sea ; 
I saw upon the trellised roof 

Outspread the wine that was to be; 
A giant-flowered and glorious tree 

I saw the tall magnolia soar; 
ISut there, even there, 1 longed for thee, 

Poor shamrock of the Irish shore I 

^>'ow on the ramparts of Boulogne, 

As lately by the lonely Ranee, 
At evening as I watch the sun, 
I I look ! I dream ! Can this be France 
I Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be. 

He seems to love to linger o'er ; 
1 But gilds, by a remoter sea, 
I The shamrock on the Irish shore ! 

I'm with him in that wholesome clime — 
I That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod — 
i Where hearts unstained by vulgar cnme 
I Have still a simple faith in God : 
' Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, 
j The more they're trod rebound the more, 
I Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, 

O shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
i 

Memorial of my native land. 

True emblem of my land and race — 
Thy small and tender leaves expand 

But only in thy native place. 
Thou needest for thyself and seed 

Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er- 
I Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, 

O shamrock of the Irish shore. 



POEMS OF SENT/MEXT AXD RETROSPECTION. 



Here on the tawny fields of France, 

Or in the rank, red English clay. 
Thou showest a stronger forin perchance ; 

A bolder front tliou mayest display. 
More able to resist the scythe 

That ci:t so keen, so sharp before ; 
But then thou art no more the blithe 

Bright shamrock of the Irish shore ! 

Ah, me ! to think — thy scorns, thy slights. 

Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave 
On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights. 

Or by Potomac's purpled wave ! 
Ah, me ! to think that power malign 

Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore. 
And what calm rapture might be thine, 

Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore I 

Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, 

True type of trustful love thou art ; 
Thou liest the whole year at my feet, 

To live but one day at my heart. 
One day of festal pride to lie 

Upon the loved one's heart — what more ? 
Upon the loved one's heart to die, 

O shamrock of the Irish shore! 

DENIS FLORENCE .MCCARTHY. 



THE ST. PATRICK'S CROSS. 
Come, raise me up, alannah ! Lift me up a little 

more. 
And let the sunshine touch my bed. and stream 

upon the floor ; 
Draw back the curtain farther yet — let enter 

ev'ry ray. 
And make the place look cheerful, child, for this 

is Patrick's Day. 

Once more I bid it welcome — 'tis the last for me. 

I fear; 
I've had a long. lon^ journey, but the end is 

drawing near ; 
Thank God I I 've seen my share of years ; but 

somehow, child, to-day. 
My heart grows warm and youthful anil my 

thoughts are far away. 

You know my old brown chest, asthore — go now 
and lift the lid. 

And bring me what you'll find there, in the bot- 
tom comer hid ; 



A little colored pasteboard cross— 'ds faded, 

quaint and old. 
And yet 1 prize it dearer far than if 'twere solid 

gold. 

: Long years ago I carried it across the rolling sea. 
And Time, with all its changes, has not stolen it 

from me. 
Just as you read the other day, and I believe it 

true. 
That ev'r\'where we Irish go. Cod's cross will fol- 
low, too. 

.-Vnd there are twined around it. child, what you 
can't understand, 
; Old memories of other days — of youth and native 

land; 
As dry and withered rose leaves speak of sum- 
! mers past and gone. t 

So life's bright, early springtime in this little 
cross lives on. 

It tells me of the first time that I wore it, long ago. 
Pinned here upon my shoulder, ah! but sure 

you'll never know 
How grand 1 felt that morning, with my cross 

and ribbon green ; 
God and country bound together— I was prouder 

than a queen. 

How light and gay my spirits, as we children 
climbed the hill 

To seek for four-leaved shamrocks while the dew 
was sparkling still. 

While the blackbird sang his welcome— the prim- 
rose showed her face. 

And violets were nodding from each cosy hid- 
ing place. 

My little cross I around you, oh, how many mem'- 

ries cling ! 
Old times, old scenes, old faces to my mind this 

day you bring ; 
Come, pin it on my shoulder, child, in spite of 

age and pain. 
For Ireland and St. Patrick let me wear it once 

again ! 
The weight of years may bend me, but my soul 

will ever pray. 
May God be with the good old land, and bless 

her honored day. 
And round the cross entwining may her sham- 
rocks e'er be met. 
That as she bore the burden she may share the 

triumph yet. 

E. A. SUTTON. 



A BIT OF ROMANCE. 



305 



WHERE ARE THE KNIGHTS? 

Gone are the gallant Knights of Old, 
With steely casque and waving crest, 

With red-roan steed all cased in gold, 
With glittering mail and lance in rest 
To strike for Honor's high behest ; 

Gone ! — but the world were craven-cold, 
And reft of all its first and best. 
If lived not yet in many a breast 

The spirit of those Knights of Old ! 

Ah, many a heart beats calmly brave 
'Neath spirit-armor bright and strong 

Nor lacks the hand befitting glaive 
To coinbat 'gainst the Paynim throng 
Of Error, Ignorance and Wrong, — 

With generous ardor, lion-bold. 

The Cross to guard through trials long. 
And live as worthy to have sprung 

From the heroic Knights of Old ! 

OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 



ROMANCE. 



There is no romance in this world, men say. 

It died out long ago, 
With the mail-clad knights and the ladies gay, 
And fortalicc. and joust, and roundelay. 

And arquebus and bow ; — 
With the simple truth and the trust sublime. 
And the fervor and faith of the olden time. 

And the glory of long ago. 

There is no romance in this world, we're told. 

It died out long ago ; 
Yet the sun and the moon rise and set as of old. 
And the grass springs up through the bare, 
brown mould. 

And the seasons come and go ; 
And the winds sweep by as they did of yore. 
And the waves break thundering on the shore, 

And the stars and the blossoms glow ! 



What ! no romance in this world of ours ? — 

We hear it o'er and o'er ; 
■Yet in knightly soul, not in knightly lance. 
Dwelt the lofty spirit of old Romance 

That lumined the days of yore ; 
And in glowing mind and in earnest will. 
In souls that soar and in hearts that thrill. 

It will live for evermore ! 

MARY MULLALY. 



A BIT OF ROMANCE. 

Show me the regions of sober reality. 

Where can their definite landmarks be found? 
Whether subjected to chance or fatality. 

Have they a limit that circles them round .' 
One thing I know, that such narrow periphery 

Scarce would give room for the cast of a lance ; 
A denizen there could scarce venture to whiff 
ere he 

Stumbled outside on some bit of romance. 

Treading the chisel-cut streets of Brickopolis, 

Hampered by certainties, elbowed by facts. 
No need to gaze at an air-built acropolis. 

Furnished with fairy-like dramas in acts ; 
If you but plagiarize, let no fine rage arise. 

Out of the common-place make no advance : 
Flout ideality, lean on reality.— [romance. 

You shall have touched the true source of 

Call up Tom Gradgrind, and look at the build 
of him ! 

Concrete he says he is, concrete he seems : 
The very volition appears to be drilled of him, — 

Hard-fisted foe to delusions and dreams ; 
Yield to his platitude, give him all latitude. 

Soon in the regions of boast he'll advance, 
Taking his frothing^ess all out of nothingness. 

Beating Munchausen himself with romance. 



What ! no romance in this world of ours. Sirs, I'm not one-half as good as I ought to be ; 

Where the feelings ebb and flow. Error has found me at times more or less ; [be : 

Where the heart to the music of love keeps time, ] Life has not placed me as high as I thought to 

Or stumbles and halts like a broken rhyme, \ What I ambitioned I dare not confess ; 

Or sinks 'neath its weight of woe ; ; But the erratical can be dogmatical, [vance,— 

Where the battle of life rages day and night, ; Those who fall back may make others ad- 

And the deathless struggle of Might and Right I So I am holding forth, so I am scolding forth. 

Goes on as in long ago. Taking for text my old foe-friend romance 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



What I intend this farrago tu indicate 

Simply is this : — ev'ry outburst of rhyme, 
Without something to illustrate, something to 
vindicate. 

Taken at rhyming, perhaps, may be prime ; 
But, to make phrases which others will ven- 
erate, — 

That cannot happen thro" sloth or by chance • 
Paper and pen have been often degenerate, — 

Poetry always sees life as romance. 

Stand by life's tide as it rushes with men along, — 

Nothing more wonderful, nothing less rare ! 
Crassus and Lazarus. Falstaff and Fenelon, 

Emmet and Arnold are all of them there ; 
Urummel and Bellarmine, Cato and Cataline. 

Cortes and Casas are under your glance : 
Venus and Sycorax. Mentors and Telemaques. — 

Are not these groups as grotesque as romance ? 

FRANCIS O'RYAX. 



DARK MARGARET. 

We sit by the fire. 

My poor old wife and I ; 
The fire burns slow, our hearts are low,. 

And the tear stands in the eye, 
For our daughters three who are over the sea. 

Far, far, in the wooded west ; 
One after one, our darlings are gone ; 

But our Mary we loved the best. 



My brother's son 

Sits in the chimney by us ; 
The staff of our age — hard, hard is the page 

Oi the lesson that keeps him by us. 
For he longs to be free, to go over the sea. 

Where his kindred have found their rest. 
One after one, our darlings are gone ; 

But our Mar)' he loved the best. 

Welcome. Margaret ! 
Dear Margaret, have you come .' 
Draw nigh to the fire, and tighten the wire. 
And sing us a song from home. 
I For though heaven denies the light to your eyes. 
Yet never were expressed 
By the Harper King, such strains as you sing. 
And our Mary loved ihem best. 



Sit by me. Margaret, 
Dear Margaret, sit by my side ; 
For you loved my dearest daughter, far o'er the 
world-wide water. 
Who should have been our Patrick's bride. 

! sing me Iwr songs, for my poor heart longs 
To clasp her to my breast ; 

Tho' tears it will bring, yet my dariing must sing 
What our Mary loved the best. 

You are there, Patrick ! 
1 feel your breathing soft upon my cheek ; 
A tear is in v<iur eye, and well your heart knows 
why:' 
You are there I say, although you do not speak. 

1 have been to pleasant .Meatn, and to rich Fin- 

gal beneath. 
And homeward I am going to the west ; 
And I thought as I did pass I would sing the 

"Colleen D/uis," 
\ That one you loved so well, and best. 

Hark ; she sings. 
Tremblingly over the strings her fingers stray, 
And the light that heaven denies to her clear but 
darkened eyes, [tray. 

Her wreathed smiles and dimpling cheeks be- 
(") I it is our •' Colleen Dhas," as her pleasant 
days did pass. 
Loudly lilting at the milking with the rest ; 
Soon, soon, alas ! in sighs and tears, she leaves 
our longing eyes ; 
The Mary we .-ill loved the best. 

No more, my dearest Margaret — 
Sing the " Colleen Dhas " no more ; 
For her father and her mother loved her more 
than any other, 
And her parting grieves them sore. 
You have been to pleasant Meath. and to rich 
Fingal beneath, 
And homeward you are going to the west ; 
; Tell us all the country news, the merriest you 
can choose. 
To pleasure the old couple we love best. 

I have been to pleasant Meath. and to rich Fin- 
gal beneath. 
.And homeward I am going to the west ; 
I will tell the country news, the merriest I can 
choose. 
To pleasure the old couple we love best. 



ODE TO POVERTY. 



307 



Your Mary has come home — your loved and 

loving one. 

And here she comes to tell you all the rest I 

Now, Patrick, fill your glass, while I sing the 

•• Colleen Dhas" 

With a welcome home to Mar>', you love best ! 

JOHN FISHER MURRAY. 



WHERE? 

A minute gone ! She lingered here, and then 
Passed, with face backward turned, through 
yonder door ; 

The free foid of her garments' damask grain 
Fashioned a hieroglyph upon the floor, 
Then straightened, as it reached the corridor. 

Down the long passages, I heard her feet 
Moving — a crepitating music slow — 

And next her voice, an echo exquisite. 
But modulated in its tender flow, — 
A harp thro' which the evening breezes blow. 

Upon the table there were books and flowers, 
And Indian trifles : a Mahratta blade 

Whose ivory hilt sustained a cirque of towers. 
Wedded by the inexplicable braid 
On Vishnu's shrine at harvest full moon laid. 

The curtains shook ; a scarlet glamour crossed 
The stained wood and the white walls of the 

Wavered, retreated, trembled, and was lost 
Between the statue's plinth, the console's gloom, 
And yon tall urn of yellow blossomed broom. 

I see her face look backward at me yet. 
Just as she glided by the cypress chair ; 

Her happy eyes with happy tears are wet. 
And, over bust and shoulders, cool and fair, 
Stream the black coils of her abundant hair. 

In what far past — in what abysm of time. 
Have I beheld that self-same look before .' 

There was no difference of hour or clime: 

A garment made a figure on a floor, [dor. 

Which straightened, sweeping toward a corri- 

l^are trifles were around me, curtains blew. 
And worked their restless phantasms on a ceil ; 

A sidelong bird across a casement flew. 
Upon the table glittered graven steel. 
And a low voice thrilled me with soft appeal. 



All things were there, as all things are, to-day. 
But where.' I half remember, as a dream. 

Such accidents, in epochs long grown gray — 
Such glory, but with ever-narrowing beam, 
From which I'm severed by some shoreless 
stream. 

Have I forgotten ?— is this flash of light, [start. 
Which makes the brain and pulse together 

Some ray reflected from the infinite 

Worlds, where I may hap have left a heart — 
The Infinite of which I am a part .' 

Who shall unriddle it ? Return, sweet wife. 
And with thy presence sanctify this pain ; 

Cling to my side, O faithful help of life ! 
Lest in the hour when night is on the wane. 
The destinies divide us two again. 

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL. 



ODE TO POVERTY. 

O kind acquaintance ! thou who, proverbs say. 
Dost make strange fellows meet in tawdry bed, — 
Comrades of wistful mouth, keen eyes of gray. 
Rough, world-bewrinkled face and hoary head. 
They say a gulf's between us that no tread 
Of thine can cross, tho' loving me so well. 
Yet still I long to clasp 
Thy hand with friendly grasp. 
For, spite of their predictions, who can tell .■' 

What days we had, old comrade, you and I, 
Bright years ago, when I was gay and young ; 
With you I roamed the ferny mountains high, 
Heard nature's voice in streams, in winds that 
sung, [tongue ;— 

And wood -birds warbled with melodious 
With you and other just as quaint compeers. 
What days and nights we had. 
Well mixed of gay and sad ; 
What revels, and what laughter, and what tears ! 

Ah ! many a lord of power and high renown. 
Driven from his state, at last shook hands with 
thee; -[frown 

And many a queen and mighty king, whose 
Would shake the world, have kept thee company : 
Thee they derided, while I reverently 
Call on thee, brother, with affection kind, 
That if misfortune's pain 
Should come to me again, [mind ! 
Thou'lt leave me still the heaven of peace and 

ROBERT mVYER JOYCE. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSHECTION. 



A BRIGHT SPOT IN THE SKY. 
The dream of years ofttimes betrays 
A golden grief over golden days. — 
A grief which chants, on memory's shell. 
The requiem of a sad farewell ; 
But when its strains grow low and die. 
There is a bright spot in the sky. 

With all life's ills I am content. 
If well my days are daily spent ; 
When phantoms from a distant land 
Shall come and lead me by the hand. 
Resigned I II go. without a sigh, 
For there's a bright spot in the sky. 

Should hearts grow cold and men forget 
The hand that placed them in its debt. 
Since error is the fate of all. 
And some will stand, and some will fall. 
No man by me shall prostrate lie 
While there's a bright spot in the sky. 

This world is good to him that lives 
Within the bounds that nature gives ; 
But roses bloom and roses fade, 
And brightest jewels have their shade , 
If gloom surround, then gaze on high, 
And find a bright spot in the sky. 

In every home let sunshine dwell. 

On every face let kindness tell. 

In every heart let peace find rest; 

And should pale sorrow wring the breast 

Take courage then and look on high — 

There's still a bright spot in the sky. 

To other hearts and other hands, 
To other climes and other lands. 
The coast is dark along that main 
Whose pilgrims ne'er return again ; 
But in that long and last good-bye. 
A star will guide from sky to sky. 

HUGH F. McDERMOTT. 



THE WHITE ROSE. 

It is a withered rose. 
That like a rose's corpse, full dry and wan 

Finds here its last repose. 
Its lustre dulled, its form and softness crushed, 
The tender life with which its petals flushed. 
And all its soul of subtle fragrance gone ; 



A primal rose that bloomed 
Among the kindling brands, as white as frost. 

Where Zillah stood undoomed. 
Or from .Mahomet's forehead lluttered fair 
To earth, when Al Borak cleft through the air 
In flight to heaven, might leave so frail a ghost. 

The poet moralist 
Hath ever taken sombre joy to sing 

Uf)on a theme so trist. 
And write in dust of roses lessons grim : — [dim. 
That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow 
For germs of death in folds of beauty cling ; 

That since the roses die. 
No mortal loveliness may long endure ; 

No joy outlast a sigh ; 
No passion's tlirill. no labor's work remain 
Beyond a season ; that decay doth reign ; — 
Though in the tyrant's very riot, sure. 

Some pledge of hope is found, 
That all the universe is not a grave 

And life sits somewhere crowned. 
Not Tasso's soft persuasion unto sin 
I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within. 
Nor any precept Epicurus gave ; 

To me thou dost not breathe 
A thought of festivals, or memory 

Of woven, wine-dippetl wreath. 
Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret 
For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set. 
Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee. 

To kiss thy leaves I bend. 
And lo : The crash of cannon fills mine ears : 

I see the banners blend 
Into the battle smoke : and the long lines 
Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines 
Through clouds of dust ;— the hopes, the hates, 
the fears 

Of old thrill through my heart ; 
Again the myriad ghosts of the great war 

From out their cerements start ; 
Again the nation in the contest strains 
Its every ner\'e ; again the deep refrains 
Of groan and cheer break on us from afar ! 

What mystery of power 
To fill the mind with visions such as these 

Lies in this scentless flower ? 
'Tis three and twenty years this very June, 
Since first it opened to the southern noon 
And swung in languor to a southern breeze ; 



THE WHITE ROSE. 



309 



And on the stalwart breast 
Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, 

'Twas set, in gallant jest ; 
In the long march's dust it drooped its head 
And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead. 
With many a life more precious finding doom. 

Beside a farmer's home 
In shade and shine this rose of battle grew. 

What time the rolling drum 
Announced the crisis of the war at hand, 
As Meade pressed swiftly north through Mary- 
And ever closer to Lee's columns drew ; [land, 

On that grim, weary march 
Rain seldom fell ; the June sun fiercely glowed. 

And seemed all things to parch ; 
The winds grew still, nor in their motion swung 
The dust that round the lithe battalions clung 
For miles on many a winding country road. 

The women stood in groups 
And watched with tear-wet eyes and smiling lips 

The marching of the troops ; 
The smiles came at the sight of manhood stern 
Moving to sacrifice with unconcern ; 
The tears were for the battle's drear eclipse 

That was so soon to fall 
On many a home where then the sunshine slept — 

The shadow of a pall ; [and stars. 

And though their hopes went with the stripes 
Or lingered far away with stars and bars. 
Yet they were women still — and smiled and wept ! 

And where this rosebud lush 
Had blossomed into innocence and peace 

Upon its modest bush, 
A column halted for a rest at noon 
And the tired soldiers, glad of such a boon, 
Flung knapsacks off, stacked arms, and took 
their ease. 



And there to one that quaffed [zest, 

From the deep farm-house well, with careless 

A luscious draught, 
A fair girl said, scorn lurking round her mouth : 
" Dare these men meet the veterans of the South,'" 
Half earnestly she spoke, and half in jest. 

The soldier's serious eyes 
An instant flashed, and then grew soft again, 

While yet the quick surprise 
Was flushing his bronzed cheek ; but he was born 
To reverence womanhood, and not to scorn ; 
And so disdained to wound her with disdain. 



He spoke with quiet grace 
In even tones, a smile both quaint and grave 

Upon his firm, strong face : 
" To wear in the ne.xt battle give to me 
A rose," he said, " and then the rose will see I" 
In sobered mood she plucked this flower and 
gave. 

It seems another age [bloom 

When things like these were done ; the rose's 

He took as battle gage. 
And with his laughing comrades went his way. 
Well knowing that the columns wide astray 
Were fast converging for the day of doom ! 

O streams of rippling steel 
That northward flowed with current ever true ! 

In thought we watched you wheel 
Among the hills, a-winding to and fro. 
The weapons sparkling o'er the men below 
Like glancing foam above the waves of blue ! 

We knew your end and source, [dire. 
And that your torrents, crowned with portents 

Would keep their onward course 
Till in the battle's plunge, with thunder's roar 
And scorching flames, your cleansing tides 

should pour 
Abroad, and save the nation as by fire ! 

The first day of July, 
Just north of Gettysburg, the fight began 

Whose memory will not die. 
There lay along the outskirts of a wood 
A regiment busy in the work of blood ; 
And he that wore the rose watched every man. 

Alert, unvexed, intense. 
And kept the firing cool, and fierce and fast ; 

In front in column dense [flinch 

Stern Southern valor stormed, and would not 
Nor be denied, yet could not win an inch — 
Till far outflanked, our lines gave way at last. 

Behind the frightened town. 
On Cemetery Hill the rout was stayed; 

And there the men lay down 
And slept content among the graves that night : 
And there this pallid rose, in soft moonlight. 
Upon its wearer's heaving bosom swayed. 

The gathered armies clashed. 
And on the circling hills, the second day, 

Incessant cannon crashed ; 
And shot and shell tore up each reverent mound 
And flung the tombstones' shattered fragments 

round — ■ 
Poor rose, that heard the din of such a fray ! 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



On the third day, behold ! 
It saw the climax of the battle come ; 

When calm, and stern, and bold 
The jjreat \'irjjinians charged and could not win, 
Tho' manhood's Hower, as they have ever been 
In field or hall, or by the hearth of home. 

How proud their column moved 
Up the long slope of death with stubborn tread. 

Obeying him they loved ! 
And still against the storm of fire that scourged 
Supporting squadrons backward as it surged. 
How fierce they held their way unwearied ! 

Mayhap with other foes 
They might have won ; but ever slow to yield 

And ever prompt to close 
Were Hancock's men ; and the \'irginian shaft 
That pierced our lines was shattered, head and 

haft. 
Within the wound ! — And Lee had lost the field ! 

Amid the eddied smoke, 
The groans of dying men, and the glad cheer 

Of victory that broke 
F"rom hill to hill, this thing of beauty died. 
And he that wore and had forgot it, sighed 
And thought of it again as something dear ; 

So from his breast he took 
The rose and sent it home to have it set 

Within this simple book. 
The favorite of a girl he loved and lost, 
And 'mid the leaves it lingers like a ghost — 
Though they be gone the flower abideth yet ! 

And often when I gaze 
Into its folds and see these visions fair. 

Mine eyes are filled with haze 
Of tears for him that wore it, true and brave ; 
Almost 1 turn to fling it on his grave 
Beside the little flag that flutters there !— 

Then sigh for power to close 
Within the amber clear of poetry 

This pale and withered rose 
That else must pass and crumble into dust 
And squander in some wild and windy gust 
The essence I would set in melody. — 

The feelings of the time 
When first it bloomed ; the deeds of sacrifice ; 

The thoughts and acts sublime ; 
The scenes of battle with their woe and scathe, 
The courtesy and courage, love and faith — 
That I can read within it with mine eyes ! 

JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 



THE BRIER-WOOD PIPE. 

Ha ! bully for me again, when my turn for the 
picket is over. 

And now for a smoke as 1 lie, with the moon- 
light, out in the clover. 

My pipe is onljKhe knot from the root of a brier- 
wood tree, 

But it turns my heart to the Northward — Harry 
gave it to me. 

And I'm but a rough, at the best, bred up to the 

row and the riot ; 
But a softness comes over my heart when all are 

asleep and quiet. 

For many a time in the night strange things 

appear to my eye. 
As the breath from my brier- wood pip>e curls up 

between me and the sky. 

Last night a beautiful spirit arose with the wisp- 

ing smoke ; 
O, I shook, but my heart felt good, as it spread 

out its hands and spoke ; 

Saying, " I am the soul of the brier ; we grew at 

the root of a tree, 
Where lovers would come in the twilight— two 

ever, for company. 

" \\'here lovers would come in the morning — ever 

but two together ; 
When the flowers were full in their blow; the 

birds in their song and feather ; 

"Where lovers would come in the noontide, loi- 
tering — never but two. 

Looking in each other's eyes, like pigeons that 
kiss and coo. 

"And O, the honeyed words that came when 

their lips were parted. 
And the passion that glowed in the eyes, and the 

lightning looks that darted ! 

"Enough : Love dwells in the pipe— so ever it 

glows with fire! 
\ And I am the soul of the bush, and the spirits 
'■ call me Sweet Brier." 

That's what the brier-wood said, as nigh as my 
I tongue can tell, 

And the words went straight to my heart, like 
the stroke of the old fire-bell. 



LUCY'S ATTIRE. 



To-night I lie in the clover, watching the blos- 

somy smoke ; 
I'm glad the boys are asleep, for I aint in the 

humor to joke. 

I lie in the hefty clover; up between me and the 

The smoke of my pipe arises : my heart will be 
quiet, soon. 

My thoughts are back in the city, I'm everything 

I've been ; 
1 hear the bell from the tower, I run with the 

swift machine, 

I see the red shirts crowding around the engine 

house door ; 
The foreman's hail from the trumpet conies with 

a hollow roar. 

The reel in the Bowery dance-house, the row in 
the beer saloon, 

Where I put in my licks at Big Paul, come be- 
tween me and the moon. 

I hear the drum and the bugle, the tramp of the 

cow-skin boots. 
We are marching on our muscle, the Fire Zouave 

recruits ! 

White handkerchiefs wave before me — O, but 

the sight is pretty 
On the white marble steps, as we march through 

the heart of the city. 

Bright eyes and clasping arms, and lips that bade 

us good hap. 
And the splendid lady who gave me the havelock 

for my cap. 

O, up from my pipe-cloud rises, there between 

me and the moon, 
A beautiful white-robed lady : my heart will be 

quiet, soon. 

The lovely golden-haired lady ever in dreams I 

see. 
Who gave me the snow-white havelock — but 

what does she care for me ? 



Look at my grimy features ; mountains between 

us stind: 
I with my sledge-hammer knuckles, she with her 

jeweled hand ! 



What care I .' — the day that's dawning may see 

me, when all is over. 
With the red stream of my life blood staining 

the hefty clover. 

Hark ! the reveille sounding out in the morning 

air; 
Devils are we for the battle — Will there be 

angels there .' 

Kiss me again, Sweet Brier, the touch of your 

lips to mine 
Brings back the white-robed lady with hair like 

the golden wine ! 

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 



LUCY'S ATTIRE. 

When the summer's sultry noon 

Flecks her chamber with its rays, 
Or in arbors sweet the moon, 

Warmly waning through the haze, 
Sheds along her careless hair 
Languid lustres, she shall wear 
Floating robes of purest white. 
And perfled scarf as airy light 
As morning cloud ; but when the crown 
Of golden autumn turns to brown. 
And sad the wind of sunset blows 
About the evening's shortened close ; 
When bees have settled in their hive. 
And leaf-strewn gates are closed at five ; 
When moonlight fays in pantries flock. 
O'er milky pail and honey-crock, — 
O then in garb of russet she 
Shall pace the rounds of housewifery ; 

With key-bunch safe in apron fold. 
Mix with the twilight ouphs, and feast 
In morning casements, looking east, 

The bright-eyed robin puff'd with cold. 

When December's leaden day 

Scarcely breaks the clasp of niglit. 
Soft shall be her garb and gay, 

Soft and warm in winter's spite ; 
Nettled caps of closest coil 
Shall guard her locks in silken toil ; 
Bonnets blithe of darling dyes 
Enshade her forehead's coquetries ; 



312 



J'OEAfS OF SENr/AfE.Vr AXD RETROSPECT It 



Collars crescent shaped and white, 
Needled from the flaxen skein 
Round her jjentle throat will show 
Like a wreath of crispy snow ; 
Ever her finj;er tips shall glow 
In tiny gloves that fit as tight 
As pink sheaths of the i>erfunied bean. 

But when norland tempests stir. 
mowing o'er the frosted lands, 

She must wear, without demur. 

Cosy refuges of fur 

For sweetest neck and cold white hands ; 

So that whosoe'er she meet 

Shall deem her soft salute a treat : 

And though skies arc gray and dull 
Round about her, yet within 

Mantle lined with warmest wool, 
Shall her merry heart make din ; 

As she treads the noon-day town 
Toward the costly decked bazaar: 

Or, by evening forest brown 

Wanders with her favorite star. 

Such shall seem her outward dress ; 

As the mystic seasons roll 
Seasoned with them ; while no less 

Shall their image tinge her soul. 
Chaste as chill December ; bright 
As starry July's summer night ; 
Pure as April's gelid buds, 
Rich as -August's fruited woods. 
Blending in its many moods 
Nature's warnitli with Heaven's light. 

rUDMAS c. IRWI 



WINTER'S VICTIM. 

Ah, crony mine, alone we sit. 
While round us howls the winter. 

And thoughts of beauty dying Hit. 
As sparks from yonder splinter. 

Earth, air, and sky are bleak and chill- 
Blest \'irgin guide the comer. 

Who ventures o'er this Highland hill— 
'I'lie Mionumcnt of summer. 



Relight your meerschaum, crony mil 
Let's dream in clouds together; 

Refill your glass with friendly wine. 
We'll loast the summer-weather. 



For oh, wild frosts shall ne'er congeal. 
Nor make our hearts the glummer. 

Nor blight the kindness that we feel 
For earth-delighting summer. 

Hark ! heard you not a cry full faint. 
Yet loud to ears of pity .' 

Ope, ope the do<5r, no human plaint 
Shall pass us to the city. 

What's here ? a girl and aged man- 
He guards but to benumb her — 

'Tis winter, shivering and wan. 
And "neath his robes the summer. 

Come in, come in, thou hoary form. 

Come in, thou frozen beauty ; 
Here glows the firelight glad and warm. 

With hearts of tender duty. 
Take thou the farthest ingle-rest, 

Weird sjige, where thou may'st slumber; 
The maiden is the more distrest — 

Ah ! saddened is the summer. 

And crony mine— the embers fade, — 

A chill is in her bosom — 
Alas ! she's dead, the lovely maid : — 

White-haired ! but why accuse him ? 
He sleeps as with a soul of grace. 

With mien than erst not grummer— 
Haste, haste thee, comrade, seek a place 

Where we may bury summer. 

Lost bloom ! the north-wind moans her dirge, 

Be ours to aye commend her ; 
But grieve not, comrade, she'll emerge 

From out the grave in splendor. 
She'll rise again and charm the world ; 

Then, wand'ring never from her, 
We'll laugh to see old winter hurled 

From all the paths of summer, 

WII.I.I.\M J. McCLURE. 



THE BEAUTY. 

Be it my most pleasing duly 
To describe a little beauty ; 
Though I never saw her face 
But within a picture-case. 
'T would look better in a bonnet. 
With a wreath of flowers upon it, 
.\nd a loving smile to sun it. 
But even round that picture cover 
Love and memory ever hover. 
Like the bees round tops of clover. 



SWEET CHLOE. 



zn 



It is the daguerreotype 

Of all that's rich, and rare and ripe ! 

Let me count the rosary 

Of her charms, and bend the knee 

Of unpretending poesy 

Before the heather-covered shrine 

Of this patron-saint of thine. 

Who, combining every grace, 

Reigns a female Bonny-face : — 

Hair in deep, dark currents flowing, 

Whose smooth waves with light are glowing, 

As in countless drifts and whorls 

It breaks upon her neck in curls ; 

Flashing eyes with azure tinged. 

Jetty arched and silken-fringed ; 

Blest he'll be whom their warm glances 

Coax along to love's advances; 

Happy he who shall behold 

Love's first buds in them unfold. 

Her dainty nose I'll not define 

As either Greek or aquiline, 

Nor it with ostentation call 

" The noblest Roman of them all " — 

But all their beauties blent in one 

Could only make this paragon ; 

For in it mingle all the graces 

Seen in those of classic faces. 

Cheeks on which, tho' peace reposes, 

War again the jealous roses. 

A dainty mouth enwreathed with smiles, 

But free from all coquettish wiles. 

Whose curved lips, vermilion-hued. 

Are love's own sweet similitude ; 

While thro' them oft are seen beneath 

Flashing, pearl-enameled teeth. 

Throat that like a marble column, 

Curtained by her tresses' volume. 

Stands revealed as in a niche. 

Splendidly adorned and rich. 

Moulded to artistic lines. 

And polished till it fairly shines. 

There you see all rare and bright, 

A face of which I dream at night. 

If her charms I've rightly told, 

'Tis an angel you behold. 

Who will win and wear the beauty ? 

Some old fellow grim and sooty. 

You smile, and doubtless think it funny — 

Let me add, he'll have the money ! 

A sour and mouldy, hard old crust. 

Round whom dame Fortune drifts her dust,— 

Some brute, who may abuse and thump her- 



Or some sleek young counter-jumper — 

A shrewd, adulterating grocer, — 

Methinks I hear you mutter, " No, sir I" 

Ah ! my boy, you should know better ; 

One of them is sure to get her. 

Depend upon it, she'll be won 

By Jones, or Brown, or Robinson. 

If she fishes for her mate 

With youth and beauty as her bait, 

The chances are she'll catch a Tartar, 

And die a matrimonial martyr; 

Or, after years of angling, marry 

Tom. aye. even Dick or Harry. 

If her heart is not as true 

As her features fair to view. 

For you to strive to rival Mammon 

Is worse, my friend, far worse than gammon. 

Most beauties are, you should consider. 

Knocked down to the highest bidder. 

Every one has some sweet face 

Prisoned in a picture-case, 

Or by memory's magic art 

Photographed upon the heart ; 

And we all, in gloomy days. 

Steal apart and on them gaze. 

Some bring thoughts of hope and gladness, 

Some of by-gone days and sadness ; 

As old eyes by longing kindled. 

Fondly to past pleasures travel. 

And weird fingers, lean and dwindled. 

All their web of life unravel 

For the threads of golden sheen 

That far apart are dimly seen. 

MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 



SWEET CHLOE. 

Sweet Chloe advised me. in accents divine. 

The joys of the bov\l to surrender; 
Nor lose, in the turbid e.xcesses of wine, 

Delights more ecstatic and tender; 
She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask, 
Or stagger, at orgies, the dupe of a flask. 
For the sigh of a sot's but the scent of the cask. 
And a bubble the bliss of the bottle. 

To a soul that's exhausted, or sterile, or dry, 
The juice of the grape may be wanted ; 

But mine is revived by a love-beaming eye, 
And with fancy's gay flow'rets enchanted. 



POEMS OF SESTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



Oh I who but an owl would a t^ariand entwine 
Of Bacchus' ivy — and myrtle resign ? — 
Yield the odors of love for the vapors of wine, 
And Chloe's kind kiss for a bottle ? 

EDWARD LVSAGHT. 



OUR NOBLE IRISH GIRLS. 

God bless our noble Irish girls, 

God bless them all to-day ; 
We'll send the prayer far o'er the land. 

For other lips to say ; 
For when the tyrant's hand was laid 

Upon the true and brave. 
In the tender pride of womanhood 
They rose to help and save. 

Then here's our own dear Irish girls. 

Here's to o«r maiden band. 
Who yet are seen to wear the green 
In the cause of the dear old land. 

What time a foeman's hireling crew 

Surrounded Limerick's wall. 
The maids of Limerick bravely stood 

To answer manhood's call. 
The spirit's not departed yet 

With the faithful who have died 
For freedom's cause — our own dear hearts 
Still muster by our side. 

Then here's our own brave Irish girls. 

Here's to the maiden band, 
Who still are seen to wear the green 
In the cause of the poor old land. 

And walking in the funeral throng 

Which told a nation's woe. 
Ye showed the spirit changeless yet 

Of the days of long ago. 
The rain might fall, the wild wind sweep 

O'er bridge and street and square. 
But firm as soldiers in the ranks 
So pressed ye onward there. 

Then here's our own true Irish girls, 

Here's to the maiden band. 
Who yet are seen to wear the green 
In the cause of the dear old land. 

Oh, may the starry eyes which looked 

On mourning Freedom's sign, 
Yet flash their glorious light upon 

A nation's marshalled line. 



And may the prayer which maiden li|)> 

Have sent to God above. 

Bear to our stricken motherland 

The golden crown of love. 

Then here's to the noble Irish giris, 

God bless the maiden band. 
Who yet are seen to wear the green 
In the cause of the dear old land. 
.lOH.N KtEGAN CASEV. 



THE EYES OF AN IRISH GIRL. 

^ou may talk about black eyes and blue. 

About brown eyes, and hazel and gray ; 
You may praise as you please every hue 

Known on earth since its earliest day ; 
But no other eyes under the sun 

Can set poor human hearts in a whirl. 
With their pathos and mischief and fun. 

Like the eyes of a bright Irish girl. 

They are soft as the down on a dove. 

They are mild as a midsummer dawn. 
They are warm as the red heart of love. 

They are coy as the glance of a fawn ; 
Tender, pensive, and dreamy as night. 

Bright and pure as the daintiest pearl. 
Yet as merrily mad as a sprite 

Are the eyes of a young Irish girl. 

They can soothe and delight with a 'oeam. 

They can rouse and inspire with a glance. 
They can chill and reprove with a gleam 

That is keen as the flash of a lance : 
To bring peace, or the pangs of despair 

To one's breast, be he noble or thurl, 
There is nothing on earth to compare 

With the eyes of a true Irish girl. 

^'ou may search cabin, cottage and hall. 

Thro' the loveliest lands that are known ; 
But the loveliest land of them all 

Has no eyes like the eyes of our own ; 
There are faces, no doubt, quite as sweet. 

And as fair, under ringlet and curl, 
But no light like the splendors that meet 

In the eyes of a glad Irish giri. 

Ah ! Dame Nature was cruelly kind 
When she took from her lenderest skies 

The most e.xquisite tints she could find 
And bestowed them on soft Irish eyes; 



THE N YMPH OF L URLEIBERGH. 3 1 5 


For no other eyes under the sun 


While birds a-wing will soar and sing 


Can set poor human hearts in a whirl, 


To greet the King of morning risen. 


With their pathos and mischief and fun 


And, nature-stirred, the captive bird 


Like the eyes of a bright Irish girl. 


Will join accord to cheat his pri.son— 


DANIEL CONNOLLY. 


So while my heart had felt, apart. 




A transient start, it passed, fair lady. 




For love on guard, kept watch and ward, 




And closed and barred its door already. 


FROM BONDAGE FREE. 


E'en so we've met, and part, but yet. 


Thy spirit is from bondage free ! 


With fond regret, no other motive. 


Death gave thee guiltless liberty ; 


I drop a flower in beauty's bower, 


Sweet victim of ungrateful love, 


To one sweet hour of pleasure votive- 


Flit happy through the realms above ! 


Its only aim a thought to claim. 


No priest am I, with rigid rule 


From one of Eve's transcendent daughters— 


Thy merits to arraign ; 


When Minnie Beck— when yonder deck 


No dunce untaught in sorrow's school. 


Is but a speck upon the waters. 


I feel for others' pain ; 


JOHN BOYLE. 


An humble offering on thy bier, 
I drop a sympathetic tear. 




THE NYMPH OF LURLEIBERGH. 


Life's toils are mercifully brief : 


In Lurleibergh's deep shadowed vale. 


Death gives the woe-worn heart relief ; 


Where all the Rhine's blue waters meet, 


When hope is fled, 'tis bliss to die- 


A maiden sat, as fair and pale 


Griefs ending with a single sigh. 


As were the lilies at her feet; 


Delusive love dissolves the heart. 


Her hair in wild profusion flowing 


Where vivid passions glow ; 


From roses richly wreathed above 


The fault was nature's— thine the smart ; 


To hide the gentle bosom, glowing 


I well can feel thy woe ; 


With mingled thoughts of fear and love. 


Sweet one, may'st thou, thro' heaven's skies. 


Oh, Nymph of Lurleibergh ! thy lute. 


A kindred spirit recognize. 


Why stands it thus untouched and mute ? 


EDWARD LVSAGHT. 


What pensive shadows cloud thine eye. 




And cheat the moments as they fly .' 




Thou art too young, too fair for pain 
To dim the smile or wring the brain ; 




MINNIE BECK. 


Too pure thou seem'st for thought of ill. 




Yet sad thou art, and pensive still. 


Minnie Beck, if snow-white neck. 




Without a speck to mar its graces ; 


Yea, thou art sad, although no tear 


If golden hair o'er forehead fair. 


Bedews thy silken-fringed lid. 


Where time nor care hath left its traces ; 


And all the more will sorrow sear 


If lustrous eyes that sink and rise 


When thus in mute endurance hid. 


In soft surprise, their chastened glances 


Thine eyes are fixed upon the river. 


Devoid of skill, yet looks that will 


As past thy feet its waters roll 


Be fatal still as levelled lances ; 


And, swift as are its ripples, quiver 




The tides of feeling in thy soul. 


If twinkling feet, that part and meet 


Oh, Nymph of Lurieibergh ! the crown 


As light and fleet as Terpsichore's 


Of flowers you wear will wither soon. 


In festal scene, with grace and mien, 


The lute's harmonious chords will slack, 


Marked you the queen of circling glories ; 


And youth, once flown, comes never back; 


If form— no more— made man adore. 


The gushing waters, pure and sweet. 


In days of yore, the Paphian statue, 


That pour their tribute to thy feet, 


Then ask not why or wherefore I 


Soon pass the bowers of trellised vine, 


Should breathe a sigh while glancing at you. 


And perish in the stormful brine. 



3i6 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



We should not waste in tears the hours 

Of youth, that all too fleetly flow ; 
In spring the fields are decked with flowers. 

And wintry age is capped with snow; 
And thou art in the spring of being. 

And thou shouldst be as light and gay 
As is the lark when upward fleeing 

To bathe his pinions in the ray 
That calls the bluebell from the meadow, 
And steeps the hill in sultry shadow ; 
That bathes the morning lake in fire 
And tips with gold the village spire. 
I too have felt the hopeless void 
Of pleasures lost when most enjoyed. 
And learned, alas ! that tears are vain 
To wash sad memories from the brain. 

CHARLES a. HALPINE. 



IN MEDITATION. 
This is the picture ? Then, I take 

The free gift from the free. 
• Like .' "— O most like : " but flattering.? " no ! 

Too true for flattery. 
That hair is just such doubtful gold. 

Those eyes the same blue-gray. 
As that which rotmd your forehead falls, 

As yours that shift and play ; 
That upper lip's faint, prideful curve. 

That full lip's fire and fear ; 
That tightened nostril's lurking scorn — 

(,How pitiless ! how dear !) — 
That fair smooth circle of the head ; 

That white, unwrinkled brow — 
(Just where the woven tresses part, 

A shade, perhaps, too low) — 
That languid eyelash ; that pale cheek, 

A trifle straight and thin. 
Strong in its coldness, strangely weak. 

There sloping towards the chin ; 
Those eyelids lightly lined with thought. 

But seldom worn with tears ; 
And those inexorable curls 

Behind tiic jewelled cars — 
They live— it breathes— your soul is here. 

Ay. madam, clear and plain ; 
And gaining from your slender hand 

This image bright. 1 gain 
Indeed your heart's true love . . . clink ! clash 

Ah ! there amid my weal 
I cast it from me— thus, thus, thus 

Ti) grind it with my heel. 

GF.OROE F. ARMSTRONG. 



MISSING. 

A little old house on a hill ; 
Behind it tall pines, and before 
The white drift of sea to the shore. 

Across the night shadows the trill 
Of a bird ; and the tender and sweet 
Love-sigh of the grass at my feet. 

O little old house on the hill. 

Where is she, who. in simshine and snow. 

Dwelt here in the years long ago .' 

Beyond the wide sea, and the shrill 
Cry of winds, one hath borne her afar. 
And high above us as yon star. 

O little old house on the hill. 

Sweet her eyes, and how splendid and fair 

The rippled gold float of her hair. 

Doth love in her heart hold us still .'— 

Ah I the night, how it darks and grows chill, 

O little old house on the hill ! 

MINNIE GILMORE. 



SYMPATHIES. 



Green vine ! low trailing thro' the tangled grass. 
Yet clasping nought by which thy tendrils pass. 

Say, whither tendest thou.' 
" Towards yonder grand, wide reaching stately 

tree. 
Long years I strive ; there shall my resting be. 

Not here, nor now : 
There shall I cling, and to the sun uprear, 
.After my nature, fruitage ripe and fair 

Clustered on every bough ! " 
O earnest vine, this life of mine 
Hath a goal and a shrine, like thee ! 

Bright bird, swift cleaving thro' the autumn air. 
Silent and lonely, tell me why and where 

Thou wing'st thy eager flight } 
•• P'ar. far beyond the blue and shining sea 
Lies a fair land, earth's only home for me. 

Glowing in southern light ; 
There shall I dwell, there pour forth all my song. 
Buried within my panting heart so long - 

A song of strong delight ! " 
O bird, my breast hath a wild unrest. 
And an utterance-que.st, like thee / 



J?OS£S AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 



317 



Brown sailor, dreaming in thy drifting bark, 
Why o'er the ocean, trackless, wide and dark 

Sailest thou night and day ? 
"The storm-blast tore me from a tranquil shore. 
And billows tossed me since, whose angry roar 

Scareth my joys away ; 
But I will steer me to a calmer sea. 
Where lies a flowery islet, lone and free, 

And anchot there for aye ! " 
O sailor bold, 'mid Life s ocean cold 
My heart craveth a hold like thee ! 

Tired pilgrim, resting in the date-tree's shade. 
The sun is up ; why is thy step delayed ? 

Why dost thou linger here ? 
' Weary and hot the waste I've travelled o'er. 
As hot and weary lies the waste before. 

Unknown, and full of fear ; [cree, 
Rich fruits are scattered here, by Heaven's de- 
And wells of silvery light flow bounteously. 

Deep springing, cool and clear." 
Then rest thee a space; — I too, 'mid the waste. 
Have found a bright place, like thee ! 

OLIVIA. KNIGHT CONNOLLV. 



BONNIE TWINKLIN' STARNIES. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Sae gentle and sae bright — 
Ye woo me and ye win me 

With your soft and silver light. 
Now, peepin' o'er the mountain — 

Now glintin' in the streams — 
Now kissin' the red heather-bell 
All with your winsome beams. 
Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Sae gentle and sae bright — 
Ye woo me and ye win me 
With your soft and silver light. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

When gloamin' sheds its tinge. 
And strings the crystal dew-drop 

Around the gowan's fringe — 
How often do I linger. 

With keen and anxious eye. 
To watch your bonnie faces 

Come glintin' frae the sky. 

Starnies ! twinklin' starnies ! etc. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! 

Bright guardians of the skies — 
How can we dream of wickedness 

Beneath your sleepless eyes ? 



Cold and pulseless is the heart. 
And deeply fraught with guile. 

That does na feel the " lowe o' love," 
When ye look down and smile. 

Bonnie twinklin' starnies ! etc. 

J.\MES McKOWEN. 



ROSES AND THE NIGHTINGALE. 
In my garden it is night-time. 
But a still time and a bright time. 
For the moon rains down her splendor, 
And my garden feels the wonder 
Of the spell which it lies under 
In that light so soft and tender. 

While the moon her watch is keeping 
All the blossoms here are sleeping 
And the roses sigh for dreaming 
Of the bees that love to love them 
When the warm sun shines above them, 
And the butterflies pass gleaming. 

Could one follow roses' fancies. 

When the night the garden trances. 

Oh, what fair things we should chance on ! 

For to lilies and to roses, 

As to us, soft sleep discloses 
What the waking may not glance on. 

But hark ! now across the moonlight. 

Through the warmness of the June night. 

From the tall trees' listening branches 
Comes the sound, sustained and holy, 
Of the passionate melancholy. 

Of a wound which singing stanches. 

Oh, the ecstasy of sorrow 

Which the music seems to borrow 

From the thought of some past lover 

Who loved vainly all his lifetime. 

Till death ended peace and strife-time, 
And the darkness clothed him over ! 

Oh, the passionate, sweet singing. 

Aching, gushing, throbbing, ringing, 

Dying in divine, soft closes. 

Recommencing, waxing stronger. 
Sweet notes, ever sweeter, longer. 

Till the singing wakes the roses I 

Quoth the roses to the singer : 
"Oh, thou dearest music-bringer. 
Now our sleep so sweetly endeth. 
Tell us why thy song so sad seems. 
When the air is full of glad dreams. 
And the bright moon o'er us bendeth." 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



Sang the singer to the roses : 
" Love for you my song discloses. 
Hence the note of grief it borrows." 
Quoth the roses. " Love means pleasure." 
Quoth the singer, " Love's best measure 
Is its pure attendant sorrows." 

phi: IP BOURKE MARSTON. 



THE LONELY FLOWER. 
I saw upon a ruin bare, 

A little wall flower grov\ing. 
There was no ivy creeping there. 

No other blossom blowing ; 
But when the wind did rise and fall. 

And all was wildly swaying. 
Then wide around the broken wall 

Came sweetest perfume straying. 

I know within our village street 
An old man. bowed and hoary ; 

Sons he has had, and daughters sweet, 
And days of strength and glory. 



WITHERED FLOWERS. 

Hidden away from others' sight. 
Tied softly round with ribbon white. 
I keep a few poor withered flowers, 
Dead children of June's sunny hours. 
They were the sweet gift of a friend— 
With every leaf dear mem'ries blend. 
How could I throw my flowers away ? 
S/ie wore them on her bridal day. 

I touch them tenderly as though 
They lived and blushed in summer's glov 
Dried leaves, they wear for me a hue 
Hrightcr than roses gemmed with dew. 
I prize them for the giver's sake ; 
1 prize them for the thoughts they wake ; 
Remembrance makes December May — 
I cannot throw my flowers away. 

Bright orange flowers, green maidenhair. 
Their fragrance filled the house of prayer; | 
Of one great joy they were a part — 
Small things bring sunshine to the heart. 
There is no beauty in them now. 
Fast crumbling into dust — but how I 

Could I despise them in decay.* i 

She wore them on her bridal day. i 

HELENA C.\LLANAN 



But they have gone and left him here. 

In loneliness and blindness. 
With but one little grandchild dear. 

To soothe him with her kindness. 

She leads him on, by field and lane. 

The paths he likes to wander ; 
She asks him o'er and o'er again 

The tales he loves to ponder ; 
And still she heareth all he says. 

And .still her bright eye glistens. 
He knows it by the hand she lays 

In his hand while she listens. 

'Twas sweet upon that ruin wild. 

To find the wall-flower springing. 
But sweeter far that gentle child. 

Around the old man clinging, 
.^lid broken hopes, and cares, and fears. 

She stands in lonely beauty. 
.\nd brightens all his waning years 

With her dear love and duty. 

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 



MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 

My life is like the summer rose. 

That opens to the morning sky. 
But ere the shades of evening close. 

Is scattered on the ground — to die. 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see, — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf. 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief, 

Restless — and soon 'twill pass away, 
■^'et ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints which feet 

Have left on Tampa's burning strand; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

\\\ trace will vanish from the sand ; 
Yet, as if grieving to efface 
.Ml vestige of the human race. 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea. 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 



GOOD MORNING. 



319 



JUST ASLEEP. 

For a space the shadows lift now, 

Now that we are nearly met ; 
By what windings shall we drift now, 

To what shore our keel be set ? 
Dearest sleep, so long denied me, 
To what region wilt thou guide me ? 

Let us leave behind old sorrow. 

In the room where Death has been ; 

Let it bide there till to-morrow. 
Let it stalk of no man seen. 

Though to-morrow it will find me. 

Yet to-night 'twill stay behind me. 

Yes, to-morrow, iron-hearted 

As the heart of all my days. 
We shall be no longer parted. 

No more travelling by strange ways ; 
But together, whom forever 
Death alone can really sever. 

Wilt thou show me fair dream spaces 
Where my dead ones do not seem 

Dead with dust upon their faces 

Underground where comes no dream, 

But with living lips to cheer me. 

And with ears that love to hear me } 

Wilt thou take me to the shining 
Happy, precious, fleeting past. 

When the heart had no divining 
Of what life could be at last. 

Driven out of all its courses. 

Beaten back by viewless forces.' 

From the terror and the passion 
And the loneliness and strife, 

Take me in soft, tender fashion 
To the old sequestered life ; 

Let me move in the old places. 

Let me look on the old faces. 

Close against thy deep heart press me 

Till thine inmost soul I see, 
With thy loveliness caress me. 

Who am tired of all that be ; 
So, beloved, till the morrow 
There shall be no thought of sorrow. 

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 



A DEDICATION. 



How sadly like a Rachel's piteous wails, 
Dying in anguish, faintly, brokenly. 
With more of woe than all a poet's tales ? 

Thy music is thy speech : so half in fear 

I link this story now in rhythmic law. 

And miss in words that plaintive warble, clear 

And dreamful, which first woke my soul with awe. 

And thrilled it into motion, as a mere 

Is rippled weirdly by a mountain flaw. 

EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. 



My land, my Erin, can we sing of thee, 

Save in that music ringing thro' thy vales. 

And thro' thy people's hearts— how bold and free, 



OH! SAY NOT THAT. 

Oh ! say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it. 
That nature's form, so dear of old. 

No more has power to charm it ; 
Or that th' ungenerous world can chill 

One glow of fond emotion 
For those who made it dearer still. 

And shared its wild devotion. 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view 

In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
Oft look on those who loved them too 

With fancy's idle gladness. 
Again I long to view the light 

In nature's features glowing. 
Again to tread the mountain's height. 

And taste the soul's overflowing. 

Stern duty rose and frowning flung 

Her leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look and sullen tongue 

He muttered as he bound me : — 
The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free alone are given. 

But what have slaves with nature } 

CHARLES WOLFE. 



GOOD MORNING. 

The willows droop along the Nore, 

And bow down o'er its flowing. 
And blossoms paint its winding shore, 

'Mid summer perfumes glowing; 
And sunbeams smile, and bright birds sing. 

Like flowers the sky adorning. 
And bending down upon the wing, 

They bid my love—" Good morning ! " 

Good morning — Good morning! 
As if with sweet and lyric string. 

They bid my love good morning. 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



The breezes blow along the Norc, 

Mid teeming fruit-trees creeping. 
As if to whisper fairy lore 

Where loneliness is sleeping ; 
Upon their lips are perfumed sighs 

That give the senses warning. 
As gently roving through the skies. 

They bid my love—" Good morning ! " 

Good morning — Good morning ! 
As if with magic melodies, 

They bid my love good morning. 

The swallows swoop along the Nore, 

And dip their bosoms, gliding ; 
As if some joyous news they bore. 

And wantoned in their pridmg; 
As if were theirs both time and tide. 

For heeding or for scorning ; 
Bit in their speed, and in their pride. 

They bid my love — "Good morning!" 

Good morning — Good morning ! 
Yes, whilst they mock at road or guide. 

They bid my love good mornin.'?. 

JOHN T. CA.MPION. 



ON THE LAKE. 



Swift o"er the lake the li;.fht boat moves, 

With Youth and Beauty freighted. 
Past shrubby headlands, floral coves. 

So picturesquely mated, — 
Past rustic houses on the shore. 

And lovers roving, resting. 
And children gathring more and more, 

The slopes and arches crestin j;. 

The sky is of a cloudless blue, 

The waters ripple brightly ; 
The boatman dips his paddles true — 

They sparkling rise, and lightly ; 
And now in sunshine, now in shade. 

While gliding hither, thither. 
Sweet Youth and Beauty, heaven-made, 

A heaven make together I 

Anon they step upon the land, 

A land of summer-glory ; 
No blight before, on either hand. 

No scenes decayed or hoary ; 
But all is green, and grand, and bright. 

And Youth and Beauty roaming 
Down od'rous dale, up healthful height. 

Rejoice until the gloaming. 

WILIJAM J. .McCLURE. 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 
" What meanest thou, O fresh spring wind. 

Whistling so cheerily? 
Why at yon sunny nursery-blind 

Singest so merrily ? " 
" In yon fair room a babe is bom ; 
I sing to greet the merry mom." 

" What meanest thou, O summer wintl. 
That thou dost breathe so low .' 

What burtlen bearest on thy mind .' 
What secret none may know ? " 

" Beneath yon spreading chestnut-bough 

Two lovers breathe a solemn vow." 

" What meanest thou, O autumn wind. 

.Moaning so drearily .' 
Why at yon muffled window-blind 

Wailest so wearily .' " 
" Death's anguish rends a mourner's breast ; 
She wails for sleep— she moans for rest." 

" What meanest thou. O winter wind. 

Striding so mightily ? 
What secret rapture dost thou find 

Rending the cloud-cast sky ? " 
" From earth this night a soul is riven : 
I roll the clouds away from heaven." 

SAMUEL K. COWAN. 



I IN ARCADY. 

I wandered in .\rcadia's dreamful realm 
When dew of morning lay upon the world, 
And in it every floweret was empearled 
By that bright sun of promise whose sweet rays 
Lightened with life of love and beauty all my tiays. 

There rippling rills the daisies overwhelm. 

That skirt the shores of the enameled mead ; 

There Pan blew music from the oaten reed. 
And all the chorus of the Nymphs and Fauns 
Gleamed in the mazy dance on those enchanted 
lawns. 

Adown the joyous pathway of the past 

A glory fell, that filled the hours with pride ; 
For lo ! one came more fair than Tithon's bride. 
And her white brow was love's imperial shrine. 
While nameless grace was blent in face and form 
I divine. 

j Her witching words an echoing cadence cast. 
' Blown from the h.irp .'Eolian of the soul 

To chords of mine, she erstwhile did control 
In that auroral prime ; and when she smiled. 
Lilies and maribelles bloomed forth upon the wild. 



A DAY DREAM. 



Yet, like a running river in the liand. 
These visions of a fair dissolving view 
Elapse, nor will they ever more be true 
Till Memory, the enchanter, lifts the screen, 
And swiftly backward glide the glittering years 
between. 

Life is the thinker's thought ; then, golden land. 

Where Love hung on the rosy lips of Youth, 

They who have quaffed thy magic wells of 

truth. 

Still by thy singing streams will aye sojourn : — 

Return, Arcadian days! — Arcadian hours, return I 

ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 



THE GATES OF DREAMS. 

Where memory's silver ripples flow 
O'er golden sands of recollection ; 
Where fairy shapes in visions glow 
And murmuring voices, sweet and low, 
Float from the realms of long ago. 

To lend the scene perfection ; 
In border lands of pure delight, 
Of rainbow day, and sapphire night. 
Imagination's rosy beams 
Fall on the golden gates of dreams. 

ROWLAND B. MAHANY. 



A DREAM. 

One night I dreamt of a happy valley, 

Where came not Winter with frost or snow, 
Where sunlight gilded each verdurous alley. 

Touching each leaf with a golden glow ; 
The gay-plumed song-birds in troops together, 

Each bright-hued feather a spot of light. 
Sang gay sweet chants to the fair, calm weather 

From rosiest dawn till the purple night. 

Daintiest blossoms, deep-hued and tender, 

Shone thro' the grasses, all emerald green ; 
Delicate fern-fronds, tall and slender, 

Hung over a rivulet passing between ; 
Silvery its flowing, and cool its plashing. 

Its soft drops dashing a pearly shower 
O'er thirsty flowerets, and merrily splashing 

The brown bee seeking his honey dower. 

Roses, crimson, snow-white and creamy. 
Their passionate sweetness displayed to view. 

Bearing, each in its gold heart dreamy, 
Odorous vapors distilled with dew. 



Queenly lilies, pallid and saintly. 

Quivering faintly as south-winds pass. 

Their silvery whiteness contrasting quaintly 
With pansies purple, amid the grass. 

But, ah ! my vision has passed, not knowing ; 

Alas ! that roses should ever pale, 
That white of lily should lose its glowing. 

That golden sunlight should fade and fail. 
Ah me I that ever such sweetest seeming 

Should be but dreaming of winter night. 
Only to wake to the gray dawn, deeming 

Its coming colder for so much light. 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 



A DAY DREAM. 

On a sunny brae, alone I lay. 

One summer afternoon ; 
It was the marriage-time of May 

With her young lover June. 
From her mother's heart seemed loath to [ 

That queen of bridal charms. 
But her father smilled on the fairest child 

He e'er held in his arms. 

The trees did wave their plumy crests. 

The glad birds caroled clear ; 
And I, of all the wedding guests. 

Was only sullen there. 
There w^as not one but wished to shun 

My aspect void of cheer; 
The very gray rocks, looking on. 

Asked, " What do you do here ? " 

And I could utter no reply ; 

In sooth I did not know 
Why I had brought a clouded brow 

To meet the general glow. 
So, resting on a heathy bank, 

I took my heart to me. 
And we together sadly sank 

Into a reverie. 

We thought, " When winter comes again, 

Where will these bright things be ? 
All vanished, like a vision vain. 

An unreal mockery. 
The birds that now so blithely sing. 

Through deserts, frozen dry. 
Poor spectres of the perished spring, 

In famished troops will fly. 



32: 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



" And why should we be glad at all ? 

The leaf is hardly green 
Before a token of its fall 

Is on the surface seen." 
Now, whether it were rcall/ so, 

I never could be sure. 
But as ill fit of peevish woe 

I stretched me on the moor, 

A thousand thousand gleaming fires 

Seemed kindling in the air ; 
A thousand thousand silvery lyres 

Resounded far and near : 
Methought the very air I breathed 

Was full of sparks divine. 
And all my lieather-couch was wreathed 

By that celestial shine ? 

And while the wide earth echoing rung 

To their strange minstrelsy, 
The little glittering spirits sung. 

Or seemed to sing, to me. 
" O mortal ! mortal ! let them die ; 

Let time and tears destroy. 
That we may overflow the sky 

With universal joy ! 

" Let grief distract the sufferer's breast, 

And night obscure his way; 
They hasten him to endless rest. 

And everlasting day. 
To thee the world is like a tomb, 

A desert's naked shore ; 
To us in unimagined bloom 

It brightens more and more ! 

" And, could we lift the veil and give 

One brief glimpse to thine eye, 
Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live, 

Btxatist- they live to die." 
The music ceased ; the noonday dream. 

Like dream of night, withdrew ; 
But fancy still will sometimes deem 

Her fond creations true. 

EMILY BRONTE. 



THE FOUNT OF CASTALY. 
I would the fount of Castaly 

Had never wet my lips ; 
For woe to him that hastily 

Its sacred water sips ! 



Apollo's laurel flourishes 

Above that stream dinne ; 
Its secret virtue nourishes 

The leaves of love and wine. 

No naiad, faun, or nereid 

Preserves its haunts in charge. 

Or watches o'er the myriad 
Of flowers about its marge. 

But aye around the caves of it 

The muses chant their spells. 
And charm the very waves of it. 

As out the fountain wells. 

Its joyous tide leaps crystally 

Up neath the crystal moon. 
And falling ever mistily 

The sparkling drops keep tune. 

The wavelets circle gleamily. 

With lilies keeping tryst ; 
Fair emeralds glisten dreamily 

Below, and amethyst. 

Once taste that fountain's witchery 

On old Parnassus' crown. 
And to this world of treachery. 

Ah, never more come down I 

Your joy will be to think of it ; 

'Twill ever haunt your dreams; 
You'll thirst again to drink of it 

Among a thousand streams. 

JOSEPH O'CONNOR. 



'iHE POET. 



The poet passed through the busy ways 

Where wealth and power dwell. 
And his dreamy eyes, far-absent gaze 

On many a sorrow fell ; 
Around his path — unseen — unheard. 

By the onward-straining crowd — 
Wept loveliness that grief had seared, 

And youth that pain had bowed. 

But his wandering soul was far away 

In the happy land of dreams. 
Where the silver-crested wavelets play 

In the sunlight's golden gleams. 
And verdant knolls and sunny slopes 

In long perspective rise. 
To where the purple mountain-tops 

Are merged in summer skies. 



THE PLEASURES OF POESY. 



The poet stood in the bright saloons 

Where mirth and pleasure shine, 
The walls were wreathed with gay festoons, 

And the goblets foamed with wine ; 
Yet he stood alone 'mid the surging throng — 

A moon in a troubled sky^ 
While the swell of many a blithesome song 

Unheeded passed him by. 

For his soul was wandering far away 

In the sunny land of dreams, 
And he heard but the wildwood s breezy lay, 

And the murmur of falling streams; — 
He heard but the song of happy birds 

In joyous concert there, 
And the swelling ocean's solemn chords 

Far borne on the quivering air. 

The poet loved, but he loved in vain. 

Of fancies his hopes were wove ; 
For alas ! he had naught but his wayward strain 

And his hidden store of love. 
And so. like the color of sunset skies. 

His life-joy ebbed away. 
And the tender light in his eager eyes 

Grew fainter day by day. 

Ah ! wearily, wearily waned the years 

Till the tardy end drew nigh, 
But a loving God dispelled his tears. 

As the shadow of death stood by ; 
For he saw far away in the golden even 

The fields of glory stand ; 
And he cried aloud, for the dawning Heaven 

Was his own old Wonderland. 

EDWARD HARDING. 



AT PARTING. 



I put my flower of song into thy hand 

XnA turn my eyes away ; 
It is a flower from a most desolate land. 

Barren of sun and day. 

Even this life of mine. 
As two who meet upon a foreign strand, 

' f was mine with thee to stay : 
I put this flower of song into thy hand. 

And turn my eyes away. 

And look where no lights shine. 

By phantom wings this desolate air seems fanned. 

Where sky and sea show gray ; 
I put my flower of song into thy hand, 

And turn my eyes away ; 

But to no other shrine. 



My hopes are like a little Christian band 

The heathen came to slay ; 
I put this flower of song into thy hand. 

And turn my eyes away ; 

Keep thou the song in sign. 

Some day, it may be, thou by me shalt stand. 

When no words my lips say. 
And, holding then this song-flower in thy hand, 

Shalt turn thy eyes away. 

And drop pure tears divine. 
We part at fate's inexorable eommand ; 

We part to meet no day ; 
I put my flower of song into thy hand. 

And turn my eyes away — 

These eyes that burn and pine. 

Thy way leads summerward, thy paths are 
spanned 
By boughs where spring winds play ; 
I put my flower of song into thy hand. 
And turn my eyes away 

To life's dark boundary line, [bland, 
Fair are thy groves, thy fields are bright and 

Where exile has no sway ; 
I put my flower of song into thy hand, 
And turn my eyes away. 

To meet Fate's eyes malign. 

Sometimes when twilight holds and fills the land. 

And glad souls are less gay. 
Take thou this song-flower in thy tender hand. 
Nor turn thine eyes away. 

There in the day's decline. 
My life lies dark before me, all unplanned ; 

Loud winds assail the day ; 
I leave my song-flower folded in thy hand. 
And turn my eyes away, 

And turn my life from thine. 

PHILIP EOURKE MARSTON. 



THE PLEASURES OF POESY. 

Rail as ye list, ye minions of decay. 
And ban the wight for other ages born ; 
Wave the pined minstrel from your gate away. 
Nor waste one glance upon his state forlorn ; 
You cannot close the portals of the morn. 
When the fair Dawn first opes her dewy eye ; 
Your mandate cannot hush the vocal thorn. 
Embitter frolic Zephyr's fragrant sigh. 
Or chase gay evening down the many-colored sky. 



3^4 



POEAfi OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



Nor may you of their gorgeous garb deprive 
The flowery tribe that gem the woodland waste ; 
Nor mar the murmurs of the honeyed hive ; 
Nor will, by your vam menace, be effaced 
The various tints, in bright embroidery traced 
By fancy's touch, that fringe the purple cloud ; 
Tho' little by your vaunted presence graced. 
The thrush will twitter from his leafy shroud. 
And tell the babbling brook his amorous oain | 
aloud. 

Free o'er the furze-clad hill of yellow bloom, 
My devious step may wander, unconfined. 
Nor miss the tissued labors of the loom, 
Fumed by the incense of the western wind. 
My nature will no courtly shackles bind. 
No servile flattery, varnished o'er with art ; 
While, on yon mountain's misty summit shrined. 
Majestic sitting from the world apart, 
I to great Nature pour the homage of my heart. 

To airy regions may my spirit roam. 
Wafted on wild Imaginations wing; 
There can I find and fix my viewless home, 
And reign o'er magic realms creative king ; 
And while soft breezes sweep th' Eolian string. 
Or the loud tempest swells the bolder base. 
Bid my slight servants nectared banquets bring, 
And laughing at the little pomp of place, [space. 
Triumphant raise my throne o'er time and bounded 

Then wail not. Genius, thy unworthy lot. 
Where'er thou sadly shrink'st from sight profane ; 
Thy patient labors shall not be forgot. 
Nor lost the influence of thy lofty strain. 
From glory's nodding crest, of crimson stain. 
The laurel shall forsake its seat sublime, 
The prostrate column load the groaning plain ; 
While rising o'er the wreck, thy sacred rhyme 
Shall fire to noble deeds the sons of future time. 
THO.MAS DERMODY. 



Lowly bums the whitened hearth, 

Slowly turns the quiet earth ; 

Now the woods and skies are dumb. 

In the dizzy midnight hum. 

Come to me, sweet phantom, come. 

Hidden in the folded gray 
Of thy garment, bear the urn 

Full of Lethe's unsunned streams ; 
Bnng the flowers that live in dreams, 
Bring the boy * who often seems 
O'er the earth with me to stray. 
When the weary planets bum. 
In a cloud of shifting light. 
Thro' the hollow life of night 
Mimicking the scenes of day : 
Ye are coming nigher, nigher. 
With my song I seem to tire. 
I can hear thy spirit's hymn 
Round my faint ear's closing rim, — 
Ye are coming, phantoms dim. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



HEARTH SONG. 
Spiri'L of the half-closed eyes 
Pacing to a drowsy tune. 
Come to me ere midnight wanes, 
Come with all thy dreamy trains. 
Scattering o'er me poppy rains; 
Dropping me 'mid weary sighs 
Deep into a feathered swoon. 
Leave thy odorous bed an hour — 
Leave thy ebon-curtained bower- 
Leave thy cavern to the moon. 



THE ANGEL OF POETRY. 

TO LETITIA E. LANDON. 

I Lady ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize the 
I chord, — 

In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an 

avenging sword ; 
I But when the bolt had crushed revolt, one angel, 
I though fair and frail, 

! Retained his lute, fond attribute ! to charm that 

gloomy vale. 
The lyre he kept his wild hand swept ; the music 

he'd awaken 
Would sweetly thrill from the lonely hill where 

he sat apart forsaken ; 
There he'd lament his banishment, his thoughts 

to grief abandon. 
And weep his full. — 'Tvvas pitiful to see him 
weep, fair Landon ! 

He wept his fault I Hell's gloomy vault grew 
vocal with his song ; 

But all throughout, derision's shout burst from 
the guilty throng , 

God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- 
lowed den ; 

Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid 
the sons of men. 



' Morphe 



SPIRIT OF SONG. 



325 



Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy 

Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- 
est minstrelsy ; 

And poets wrought their spell-words, taught by 
that angelic mind, 

And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate 
mankind. 

Religion rose! man sought repose in the shadow 

of her wings ; 
Music for her walked harbinger, and genius 

touched the strings : 
Tears from the tree of Araby cast on her altar 

burned. 
But earth and wave most fragrance gave where 

Poetry sojourned. 
Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its 

rage. 
To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his 

pilgrimage ; 
Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm on 

sorrow all the while ; 
Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked in the radi- 
ance of his smile. 

Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in 

what kingly court. 
In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- 
ite resort, 
Where hast thou gone, angelic one ? Back to 

thy native skies ? 
Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive 

hermit's guise ? 
Methinks I ken a denizen of this, our island — 

nay, 
Leave me to guess, fair poetess, queen of the 

matchless lay ! 
The thrilling line, lady ! is thine ; the spirit pure 

and free ; 
And England views that angel muse, Landon ! 

revealed in thee! 

FRANCIS S. MAHONY 



SING THE OLD SONG. 

Sing the old song, amid the sounds dispersing 
That burden treasured in your hearts too long ; 
Sing it with voice low-breathed, but never 
name her : 
She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing 
High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal 
song- 
Bend o'er her, gentle heaven, but do not claim 
her! 



n twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses. 
She shades the bloom of her unearthly days ; 

The forest winds alone approach to woo her. 
Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses ; 
And wild birds haunt the wood-walks where she 
strays. 
Intelligible music warbling to her. 

That spirit charged to follow and defend her. 
He also, doubtless, suffers this love-pain ; 

And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing. 
And yet that face is not so sad as tender ; 
Like some sweet singer's, when her sweetest 
strain 

From the heaved heart is gradually dying. 

.AUBREY DE VERB. 



PROSE AND SONG. 
I looked upon a plain of green 

That some one called the land of prose, 
Where many living things were seen. 

In movement or repose. 

I looked upon a stately hill 

That well was named the mount of song. 
Where golden shadows dwelt at will. 

The woods and streams among. 

But most this fact my wonder bred. 
Though known by all the nobly wise, — 

It was the mountain streams that fed 
The fair green plain's amenities. 

JOHN STERLING. 



SPIRIT OF SONG. 
Spirit of Song ! that, in the elder time. 
Mysterious dwelling far beyond the eye 
Of vision unethereal, throned sublime, 
Held'st near the golden chambers of the sky, 
O'er Pindus ample or Olympus high. 
Not widely were thy inspirations then 
Bequeathed ; for then thou did'st the gift deny 
Of sacred song, save to the wondrous men — 
The eremites of Soul, by thoughtful grove and 
glen. 

Then was thy kindling influence confined 
Within the precincts of the classic East : 
But in that olden empire of the Mind, 
She spreads no longer now th' exclusive feast. 



3=6 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



In charmed Castaly, her song has ceased : 
The fruitage offerings of the Delphic bowers 
Are consecrated not, by Deiphos" priest. 
Now to the bard of Thebes : from Athens' 

towers. 
No shout of Freedom now rings to the circling 

hours ! 1 

But where the burning Occident unfolds 
Her mountains high and inland oceans vast, i 
Where Liberty her chosen realm beholds. 
And hears her songs arise on every blast. 
As by Eurotas sung in ages past ; I 

Spirit of Song ! into that kindred clime— | 

For, thou with Liberty deep kindred hast — 
Did'st thou advance to meet the march of Time 
And inspiration breathe, exaltingly sublime. 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 



THE SPIRIT OF IRISH SONG. 
Loved land of the bards and saints ! to me 
There's naught so dear as thy minstrelsy ; 
Bright is Nature in every dress, 
Rich in unborrowed loveliness. 
Winning in every shape she wears ; 
Winning she is in thine own sweet airs. 

What to the spirit more cheering can be 

Than the lay whose lingering notes recall 
The thoughts of the holy, the fair, the free. 

Beloved in life, or deplored in their fall ! 
Fling, fling the forms of art aside, — 

Dull is the ear that these forms enthrall ; 
Let the simple songs of our sires be tried, — 

They go to the heart, and the heart is all ! 

THOMAS FURLONG. 



ON SONGS. 



Oh ! tender songs ! 
Heart-heavings of the breast, that longs 

Its best beloved to meet ; 
You tell of youth's delightful hours. 
Of meetings amid jasmine bowers. 
Ana vows, like perfume of young flowers. 

As fleeting, but more sweet. 

Oh I glorious songs ! 
That rouse the brave 'gainst tyrants' wrongs. 

Resounding near and far ; 
Mingled with trumpet and with drum, 
Your spirit-stirring summons come. 
And urge the hero from his home. 

And arm him for the war. 



Oh ! mournful songs ! 
When sorrow's hosts, in gloomy throngs. 

Assail the widowed heart. 
You sing, in softly soothing strain. 
The praise of those whom death hath ta'en, 
.And tell that we shall meet again. 

And meet no more to part. 

Oh ! lovely songs ! 
Brcathmgs of heaven, to you belongs 

The empire of the heart ; 
Enthroned in memory, still reign 
O'er minds of prince, and peer, and swain. 
With gentle power, that knows not wane 
Till thought and life depart. 

THOMAS DER.MODY. 



WAKE ME A SONG. 
Out of the silences wake me a song. 
Beautiful, sad. and soft, and low ; 
Let the loveliest music sound along, 
And wing each note with a wail of woe. 
Dim and drear 
As hope's last tear. 
Out of the silences wake me a hymn. 
Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. 

Out of the stillness in your heart — 

A thousand songs are sleeping there, — 
Wake me a song, thou child of art ! — 
The song of a hope in a last despair. 
Dark and low, 
A chant of woe. 
Out of the stillness, tone by tone. 
Cold as a snow-flake, low as a moan. 

Out of the darkness flash me a song. 
Brightly dark and darkly bright : 

Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along 
The mystical shadows of the night. 
Sing it sweetly. 

Where nothing is drear, or dark, or dim. 

And earth song soars into heavenly hymn. 

ABRAM J. RYAN. 



THE SONGS OF LONG AGO. 

Oh, sing to me ; oh, sing again. 
Those old familiar lays — 

I love each sweet pathetic strain 
That breathes of other days. 



A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. 



c,27 



Well may my heart be deeply moved, 
Well may my tears o'erflow — 

Those were the songs my mother loved — 
The songs of long ago ! 

When winter nights were dark and long, 

We'd gather round her knee. 
To listen to the thrilling song 

Of love and chivalry — 
Of noble knights and ladies fair. 

Till our young hearts would glow — 
Oh, wild and sweet, and wondrous were 

Those songs of long ago ! 

Then sing — for, oh, I love to hear 

The songs my mother sung ; 
Whose echoes many a weary year 

Around my heart have hung — 
While wafted to me from above. 

Her sweet voice, soft and low, 
Seems mingling with the music of 

Those songs of long ago ! 

Oh, mother, dear ! your songs are still 

The sweetest songs to me ; 
No songs like them my heart can thrill — 

No modern melody 
Can stir the fountain of my tears. 

Until their waters flow, 
Like those dear songs of by-gone years — 

The songs of long ago ! 

ELLEN FORRESTER. 



THE SONGS OF HOME. 

Come, sister, sit by my weary couch 

As the day's bright face grows pale. 
And sing me one of the sweet old songs 

We loved in our native vale ; 
The present floats like a dream away, 

And thoughts of the dear past come ; 
Fond memories cling round the vanished days,- 

Oh, sing me a song of home ! 

The scenes we loved in our childhood days. 

When life was so bright and fair. 
Ere Time's rude pencil on heart or brow 

Had written a line of care. 
Shine brightly in memory's magic glass. 

Though far from them now we roam. 
As over the lonely heart-strings creep 

The strains of a song of home. 



What happy evenings long gone by 

Do those dear old songs recall, 
When the echoes of glad voices rang 

From our cheerful cottage wall ; 
Loved faces far from our sight to-night, 

Or moldering in the tomb, 
Come back with their old, familiar smiles. 

Called forth by the songs of home. 

When life's pale lamp has at last gone out. 

And our joys and woes have flown. 
May we hear the angel choirs that sing 

Around the eternal throne ; 
And, oh, how sweet in those joyous strains 

Will the glad notes be that come 
From well loved voices that long ago 

Sang the dear old songs of home. 

MARY A. McMULLIN. 



A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. 

Quarrels have long been in vogue among sages ; 
Still, though in many things wranglers and 
rancorous. 
All the philosopher scribes of all ages 

Join, una voce, on one point to anchor us. 
Here is the gist of their mystified pages. 

Here is the wisdom we purchase with gold : — 
Children of light, leave the world to its mulish- 

ness. 
Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
ness ; 
Berries were bitter in forests of old. 

Hoary old Merlin, the great necromancer. 
Made me, a student, a similar answer. 

When I besought him for light and for lore: — 
Toiler in vain ! leave the world to its mulishness. 
Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
ness ; 

Granite was hard in the quarries of yore. 

And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia, 
And in the valleys of broad Abyssinia, 

Still spake the oracle just as before :— 
Wouldst thou have peace, leave the world to its 

mulishness, 
Things to their natures, and fools to their foolish- 
ness; 
Beetles were blind in the ages of yore. 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
-Adapted /yarn Goethe. 



328 



POEMS OF SE.Vr/AfENT AND RETROSPECTION 



THE SONG OF THE GLASS. 



Once Genius, and Beauty, and Pleasure, 

Sought the goddess of Art in her shrine ; 
And prayed her to fashion a treasure. 

The brightest her skill could combine. 
Said the goddess, well pleased at the notion, 

•• Most gladly I'll work your behest ; 
From the margin of yonder blue ocean 
Let each bring the gift that seems best." 
Chorus. 
Then push round the flagon, each brother, 

But till bumper-high ere it pass ; 
And while we hob-nob one another 
You'll sing us " The Song of the Glass." 

Beauty fetched from her ocean-water 

The sea-wraik that lay on the strand ; 
And Pleasure the golden sands brought her 

That he stole from Time's tremulous hand. 
But Genius went pondering and choosing, 

Where gay shells and sea-flowers shine ; 
Grasped a sun-lighted wave in his musing. 

And found his hand sparkling with brine. 

Then push round the Hagon, etc. I 

" 'Tis well," said the goddess, as smiling, | 

Each offering she curiously scanned. 
On her altar mysteriously piling 

The brine, and the wraik, and the sand ; 
Mi.\ing up with strange spells as she used them 

Salt, kali, and flint in a mass, 
With the tlame of the lightning she fused them. 

And the marvellous compound was— Glass ! 
Then push round the flagon, etc. 

Beauty glanced at the Crystal, half-frighted, 

l-"or stirring with life it was seen ; 
Till gazing, she blushed all delighted. 

As she saw her own image within. 
" Henceforth," she e.Kclaimed, " be thou ever 

The mirror to Beauty most dear ; 
Not from steel, or from silver, or river. 

Is the reflex so lustrous and clear." 

Then push round the flagon, etc. 

But Genius the while rent asunder 

A fragment, and raising it high, 
Looked through it, beholding with wonder 

.New stars over-clustering the sky. 
With rapture he cried, "Nmv is given 

To Genius the power divine 
To draw down the planets from heaven. 

Or roam thro' the st.irs where they shine !" 
Then push roimd the flagon, etc. 



The rest fell to earth— Pleasure caught it ;— 
Plunged his bowl, ere it cooled, in the mass ; 

To the form of the wine-cup he wrought it. 
And cried. •• Ht-re's tlu true use of gLisst" 

Then leave, boys, the mirror to women- 
Through the lens let astronomers blink — 

There's no glass half so dear to a true man 
As the wine-glass when filled to the brink. 
Then push round the flagon, etc. 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 



THE CRUISKEEN LAUN. 

Let the farmer praise his grounds, 
And the huntsman praise his hounds. 

The shepherd his sweet scented lawn ; 
While I, more blest than they. 
Spend each happy night and day 

With my charming little cruiskeen laun. 

Gra-ma-chref ma cruiskeen, 

Slainte-gael ina-vourneen. 

Gra-ma-chree a coolin baun. haun, baun, 

Gra-ma-chrce a coolin baun.* 

Immortal and divine. 
Great Bacchus, god of wine. 

Create me by adoption your son. 
In hope that you'll comply. 
My glass shall ne'er run dry. 

Nor my darling little cruiskeen laun. 
Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 

And when grim death appears. 
After few but happy years. 

And tells me my glass it is run, 
I'll say, begone, you slave ! 
For great Bacchus gives me leave 

Just to fill another cruiskeen laun, 
Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 

Then fill your glasses high. 
Let's not part with lips adry, 

Though the lark now proclaim it is dawn. 
And since we can't remain. 
May we shortly meet again. 
To fill another cruiskeen laun. 
Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskeen, etc. 

ANONYMOUS. 



-My heart's 


love 


U my lit 


i=juk; 


Bright health t 


> my d .r 


ne; 


My hewt- 




r locks. 



A SONG OF SPRING. 



329 



THE SINGER. 
Ah, my life has grown a song, a song. 

And the throat may not be still. 
It is music, music faint and strong, 

And God must have his will. 
Alack ! — the rest of his singers gay 

He hath given them wings for mirth. 
To soar and sing, to whirl and play. 

Over earth and the ways of earth. 
O to flit thro' leaves, to swing on the bough. 

To do as an eagle dare. 
To feel the cool flood catch the brow 

Diving adown the air ; 
To leap from the nest in the crag's high crest. 

And drift thro' shower and shine. 
To make of the billow a moonlight pillow. 

To dance and duck in the brine ; 
In Autumn days thro' fathomless ways 

Fly to a sunbright south ! 
O to cross the plains of the ice and rains, 

And the realms of death and drout'.i ; 
To beat the cloud with a pinion proud 

High over the stormy lands !— 
Is it meet to walk with bruised feet, 

To clamber with bleeding hands .' 
Alack ! why cannot my soul made free 

To the fields of its God upclimb.' — 

Rest thee, rest thee ; shall it not be 
In a little, a little time.' 

Or.ORGE F. .\RMSTRONG. 



SINGIHG AND SIGHING. 
When my heart was singing 

All the world sang too, 
Merry laughed the greenwood, 
And the skiei were blue ; 
In and out, round about, thro' the tasseled corn, 
Golden bees, on the breeze, Hew to chase the 
morn. 
And adown the lil'.l-sidc. 

Through the mjlcy glen. 
Every rippling streamlet 

Danced and laughed again — 
When my heart was singing. 

When my heart was sighing 

All the world was gray, 
Cloud and moaning breezes 

Hid the light a.va;: ; 



Gaunt and bare, thro' the air, rose the barren hill. 
Loud and clear, rising near, piped the locust 
shrill. 
And the gloom without us 

Seemed to find a rest 
In the gathering shadows 
Hidden in my breast. 
When my heart was sighing. 

Between song and sighing 

Not a day had flown. 
Not a change had fallen 
Save on me alone ; 
Shade or light, dark or bright, from my spirit 
still [or ill ; 

Came the bloom, came the gloom, painting good 
So through all the seasons. 

Every day departs. 
Painted with the changes 
Of our changing hearts. 
Sighing thus or singing. 

MARY E. BLAKE. 



A SONG OF SPRING. 
In April's dim and shadowy nights. 

When music melts along the air. 
And Memory wakens at the kiss 

Of wandering perfumes, faint and rare — 

Sweet springtime perfumes, such as won 
Proserpina from realms of gloom. 

To bathe her bright locks in the sun. 
Or bind them with the pansy's bloom. 

When light winds rift the fragrant bowers 
Where orchards shed their fioral wreath. 

Strewing the turf with starry flowers. 
And dropping pearls at every breath ; 

When all night long the boughs are stirred 
With fitful warblings from the nest ; 

And the heart flutters like a bird 
With its sweet passionate unrest, — 

Oh ! then, beloved, I think on thee ! 

And on that life so strangely fair. 
Ere yet one cloud of memory 

Had gathered in hope's golden air. 

I think on thee and thy lone grave 
On the green hillside far away ; 

I see the wilding flowers that wave 
Around thee as the night-winds sway ; 



330 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND RETROSPECTION. 



And still, though only clouds remain 
On life's horizon, cold and drear. 

The dream of youth returns again. 
With the sweet promise of the year. 

I linger till night's waning stars 

Have ceased to tremble thro" the gloom. 

Till through the orient's cloudy bars 
I see the rose of morning bloom ! 

All Hushed and radiant with delight. 
It opens through earth's stormy skies. 

Divinely beautiful and bright. 
As on the hills of paradise. 

Lo ! like a dew-drop on its breast 
The morning star of youth and love. 

Melting within the rosy east. 
Exhales to azure depths above. 

My spirit, soaring like a lark, 

Would follow on its airy flight, 
And, like yon little diamond spark, 

Dissolve into the realms of light. 

Sweet-missioned star ! thy silver beams 

Foretell a fairer life to come. 
And through the golden gate of dreams 

Allure the wandering spirit home. 

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 



THE MERRIEST BIRD. 

The merriest bird on bush or tree 

Was Robin of the grove, 
When in the jocund spring-time he 

Sang to his nesting love ; 
Unknowing he the art to frame 

Methodic numbers vain. 
For as each varied feeling came 

He wove it in his strain ; 
With freedom gay 
He poured his lay. 
While heaved his little breast of fire 
To rival all the woodland choir. 

Upon a day, a luckless day. 

When drove the wintry sleet, 
Some urchins limed a willow spray 

To catch poor Robin's feet ; 
They sought, by measured rule and note. 

To change his woodland strain : — 



Do, r<-, mi. /a he heeded not — 
He never sang again I 

His joy is o'er. 

He sings no more. 
Nor knows the genial, kindling thrill 
That only freedom's children feel. 

You who would dull the poet's fire 

With learning of the schools. 
Gay fancy's feet with fetters tire. 

And g^ve to Genius rules, — 
Had bounteous Nature's counsel hung 

Upon your will severe, 
Tom Moore had ne'er green Erin sung. 

Nor Burns the banks of Ayr ; 

O'er-awed, I ween, 

Both bards had been. 

Nor dared to strike the simple lute 

In your majestic presence mute. 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



THE BOHEMIAN'S BALLAD. 

The princes and peers have their lands, 

The statesmen their bribes and their speeches 
The soldiers their bullets and brands, 

The doctors their philters and leeches — 
We, sons of the fork, have no gear, 

We've B's on our chests to make honey; 
We sing, and the notes that you hear 

Are draughts on demand for your money. 
So here's to the fork and the chords ! 

Lord Mayors have their coaches of state. 

And judges black caps and relations. 
And toadies the smiles of the great, 

And sailors their hemp complications — 
We, sons of the palette and brush. 

Can tuck 'neath an arm all the lumber 
For changing boiled oil into lush. 

And melting red gold from raw umber. 
So here's to the palette and brush I 

The merchants have opium and silk. 

The spinners their fans and their fact'ries, 
And those who are artists in milk 

Their plaster-of-Paris and lact'ries — 
We. sons of the pen, have our goods 

Afloat on the cranium ichor. 
For slaves we have tenses and moods 

To fetch us the pipes and the liquor. 

So here's to the quill of the goose ! 



TO THE L YRE. 



331 



Then fill up our cups to the brim, 

We'll drink to the ladies that love us ; 
Not those we adore on this dim 

Earth here, but those dwelling above us ; 
They feed us with nectar and sighs ; 

They smile when dame Fortune abuses ; 
When tired of the earth through the skies 

Let us fly to our ladies, the Muses. 

So here's to the glorious Nine . 

RICHARD DOWLU'G. 



MY VIOLON. 



Within my little lonely room 

Where many a crimson evening shines, 
I cheer away the falling gloom 

With songs beneath the casement vines : 
Sweet memories haunt the lingering day 
That hovers o'er each golden sun — 
Each time I play 
Brings back a ray — 
Sing to me, sing, old Violon. 

Old friends, your homes in sunset shine. 

The trees around them softly sigh. 
While o'er the rolling distant brine 

You sail from home and poverty ; 
I see your vessel far away, 

I see your faces sad and wan 

Turned where the day 

Sets wild and gray — 

Sing to them, sing, old Violon. 

Old books, companions of my youth. 

And friends of age, still brightening earth. 
How oft we've mused above your truth. 

How often smiled upon your mirth ! 
Your date recalls the happy years. 

And all who blessed them passed and gone- 
Their smile appears 
'Mid falling tears- 
Sing to them, sing, old Violon ! 

Companionless amid the days 

I wander in the autumn blast. 
Through fields and trees,and well-known ways, 

The silent scenery of the past. 
Like friends the distant mountains smile, 
O'erflowed by the departing sun^ 
A little while, 
A little while, 
Sing to them yet, old Violon. 



Yon pale autumnal cloud of white 

Stood in the cold east all day long. 
And in the silent sky to-night 

Under the full moon hears my song. 
My fancy whispers mournfully— 

'Tis some dear spirit beloved and gone, 
Come back to see 
Old earth and me — 
Sing to her, sing, old Violon. 

Ah ! soon, sweet friend, thy aged strings 

To stranger fingers shall resound ; 
But, when to thy rich murmurings 

The joyous dancers beat the ground. 

Through the gay window, with the moon, 

I'll look ere mirth and dance be done. 

And list thy tune. 

Though soon, too soon. 

Death wafts me from my Violon. 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



TO THE LYRE. 
Weird harp, evoke the scenes of youth. 

The morn of life, the golden hours, 
When reason first e.\pands to truth. 
As to the sun the sleeping flowers. 
The heart, like swallow on the wing. 
The step, like dun-deer in the spring. 
The faith and hope, like vines that cling 
Round ruined towers ! 

The feast of shells, the royal games. 

The banquet hall, the revelrie ; 
The herald-roll of glorious names ; 

And oh ! recall our country free ! 
Or wake the soul-inspiring words 
That swept and swelled thy passion -chords- 
Bold echoes to the clash of swords 
For libertie I 

But no, those strains of loftier flight. 
Ah, me ! usurp the bard's control. 

For shadows darket'than the night. 
Congeal his heart, oppress his soul ! 

The requiem of his land is knelled. 

The spirit broken — never quelled — 

And sorrow cannot be dispelled 
By song or bowl ! 

We've seen her people fearless stand. 

And the avenging hour draw near ; 
Seen the oppressors of the land 

Or fly afar, or pale with fear ! 



)32 



POEMS OF SE.Vr/AfE.Vr A.VD RETROSPECTION. 



What see we now — bereaven one ? 
Thy day of resurrection gone. 
And thee, betrayed, and leaning on 
The broken spear' 

Away, ye glowing rliapsodies. 

Fond memories of the days of yore ! 
The echoes of the moaning seas 

At midnight over Aileach's shore. 
The reeds that murmur by the streams. 
The shadows of departed dreams, 
Those be thy voices, these thy themes 
For evermore ! 

JOHN BOYLE. 



IRISH MUSIC. 



Oh. dear old airs of Ireland, 

Fresh from the heart you spring ! 
Oh, g^and old airs of Ireland, 

Your spell around us Ihng I 
The ear may be untuned, untaught. 

The eye unused to glisten ! 
But yet when these sweet strains arise. 

The heart keeps still to listen. 

Old airs, old airs, ye raise the dead. 

Ye bring the past before me ; 
The very winds that swept the hills 

In youth, are blowing o"er me! 
They rustle through the bearded grain. 

Amid the trees they dally ; 
They stir the primrose in the mead. 

The shamrock down the valley. 

I'm home again : The Irish earth 

And Irish sky are meeting. 
And these old airs on Irish winds 

Go by me like a greeting. 
How siveet they are ! how grand they are ! 

How tender and how glowing ! 
How weirdly sad. h' <v wildly glad. 

How full to over-fl"wing 

With memories of olden days. 
With Ireland's grief and glory— 

The pride and pathos, love and hate. 
That chequer her sad story I 



The burning sense of bitter wrong. 

The scorn of base compliance. 
That flings even in the face of Fate 

Its deep and stern defiance ! 

Ah me ! ah me ! that fearful wail ! 

A heart is surely breaking. 
And. like the swan, in melixly 

Its leave of life is taking; 
And unto that heart's agony 

Mine listened till it grew sick — 
Then, tell me not those sighs arc notes. 

That storm of tears mere music ! 

Hush, hush ! it dies away in sobs. 

Grief's tide is ebbing slowly ; 
But ere the last faint sound is heard — 

Ere it has died out wholly — 
Bursts forth a strain so wildly gay. 

So bubbling o'er with gladness, 
It reels like Msenad in her play. 

Or Bacchant in his madness ;— 

A strain that drives off thought and care 

As day drives off a spectre. 
And fills the heart up to the brim 

With pleasure's sparkling nectar. 
Then, while each sense is all distraught 

With mirth's inlo.xication. 
Rolls out a glorious battle-hymn— 

The challenge of a nation ! 

Tell me not of Italian airs, 

To sense, not heart, appealing : 
Was ever sound so full of soul. 

Or notes so strung with feeling 
As in those dear old airs that spring 

From passion or devotion. 
Or love that hides within the heart. 

Like pearls within the ocean ? 

Old airs, old airs, how faithfully 

Each changing mood ye render, — 
The sad, the proud, the fierce, the gay. 

The martial and the tender I 
Fresh are ye as the breeze that sweeps 

From Carrick to Kinsale, 
And sweet as a hawthorh hedge in bloom. 

Old songs of Innisfail ! 

MARY MVLLALV. 



PART VI. 

POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



High on the hill-top 

The old king sits ; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses, 
On his stately journeys 

From Slieveleage to Rosses ; 
Or going up with music 

On cold, starry nights, 
To sup with the queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
Wheu she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back 

Between the night and morrow ; 
They thought she was fast asleep. 

But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 

Deep within the lakes, 
On a bed of flag leaves. 

Watching till she wakes. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION, 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 

" They made her a grave too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true ; [Swamp, 

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 
Where, all night long, by a tire-fly lamp, 
She paddles her white canoe. 

" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 

And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 
Long and loving our life shall be. 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree 
When the footstep of death is near. " 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds : 

His path was rugged and sore ; 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds. 

And man never trod before. 

And, when on the earth he sank to sleep. 

If slumber his eyelids knew. 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew. 

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 

Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 

"O where shall I see the dusky lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear ? " 

He saw the lake ; and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd ; — 
"Welcome," he .said, "my dear one's light!" 
And the dim shore echoed for many a night 

The name of the death cold maid. 

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark. 

Which carried him off from the shore ; 
Far, far he followed the meteor spark. 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat returned no more. 



But oft from the Indian hunter's camp 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp. 

And paddle their white canoe ! 

THOMAS MOORE. 



THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE. 

'Twas when the spinning-room vi-as here. 

There came Three Damsels clothed in white. 

With their spindles every night ; 

Two and one, and Three fair Maidens, 

Spinning to a pulsing cadence. 

Singing songs of F.lfin-Mere ; 

Till the eleventh hour was toU'd, 

Then departed through the wold. 

Years ago, and years ago ; 

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow 

Three white Lilies, calm and clear. 
And they were loved by every one ; 
Most of all, the Pastor's son. 
Listening to their gentle singing. 
Felt his heart go from him, clinging 
Round these Maids of Elfin-Mere ; 
Sued each night to make them stay. 
Sadden 'd when they went away. 

Years ago, and years ago ; 

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 

Hands that shook with love and fear 
Dared put back the village clock,— 
Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock, 
Flow'd the song with subtle rounding. 
Till the false " eleven " was sounding ; 
Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere 
Swiftly, softly, left the room. 
Like three doves on snowy plume. 

Years ago, and years ago ; 

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow. 



POEMS OF THE lAfAGINATIOA. 



One that night who wander'd near 
Heard lamentings by the shore, 
Saw at dawn three stains of gore 
In the waters fade and dwindle. 
Nevermore with song and spindle 
Saw we Maids of Ellin-Mere. 
The Pastor's Son did pine and die : 
Because true love should never lie. 

Years ago, and years ago ; 

And the tall reeds sigh as the wnnd doth blow. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHA.M. 



! 
" Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God ! ] 

Cling close !— Ah, heaven, she slips from me ! " j 
A prayer, a groan, and he alone 

Rode on that night from the gallows-tree. 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. j 



THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET. 

There was no west, there was no east. 

No star abroad for eyes to see ; 
And Norman spurred his jaded beast 

Hard by the terrible gallows-tree. 

" O. Norman, haste across this waste, — 
For something seems to follow me ! " 

," Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God, | 
We nigh have p>assed the gallows-tree ! " 

He kissed her lip : then — spur and whip ! j 

And fast they fled across the lea ! 
But vain the heel, and rowel steel, — 

For somethmg leaped from the gallows-tree ! 

" Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak. 
That wrapi^ed you oft beyond the sea ! 

The wind is bold, my bones are old. 
And 1 am cold on the gallows-tree," 

"O holy God ! O dearest Maud, 

Quick, quick, some prayers— the best that be ! 
A bony hand my neck has spanned, 

And tears my knightly cloak from me I " 

" Give me your wine, — the red, red wine. 
That in the flask hangs by your knee ! 

Ten summers burst on me accurst. 
And I'm athirst on the gallows-tree ! " 

" O Maud, my life, my lo\nng wife ! 

Have you no prayer to set us free ? 
My belt unclasps,— a demon grasps, 

And drags my wine-flask from my knee ! " 

" Give me your bride, your bonnie bride, 

That left her nest with you to flee ! 
O she hath flown to be my own. 

For I'm alone on the gallows-tree! " 



THE WALKER OF THE SNOW. 

Speed on, speed on, good master. 

The camp lies far away ; 
We must cross the haunted valley 

Before the close of day. 
How the snow-blight came upon me 

I will tell you as we go, — 
The blight of the shadow-hunter 

Who walks the midnight snow. 

To the cold December heaven 

Came the pale moon and the stars 
As the yellow sun was sinking 

Behind the purple bars. 
The snow was deeply drifted 

Upon the ridges drear. 
That lay for miles bctvs-een me 

And the camp for which we steer. 

'Twas silent by the hillside 

And by the sombre wood. 
No sound of life or motion 

To break the solitude. 
Save the wailing of the moose-bitid 

With plaintive note and low. 
And the skating of the red leaf 

Upon the frozen snow. 

And 1 said, " though dark is falling. 

And far the camp must be. 
Yet my heart it would be lightsome 

If I had but company." 
And then I sang and shouted. 

Keeping measure as 1 sped 
To the harp-twang of the snow shoe. 

As it sprang beneath my tread. 

Nor far into the valley 

Had 1 dipped my weary way 
When a dusky figure joined me 

In a capuchin of gray. 
Bending upon the snow shoes 

With a long and limber stride. 
And I hailed the dusky stranger 

As we travelled side by side. 



THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 



2)2)7 



But no token of communion 

Gave he by word or look, 
And the fear-chill came upon me 

At the crossing of the brook. 
For I saw by the sickly moonlight, 

As I followed, bending low. 
That the walking of the stranger 

Left no footmarks on the snow. 

Then the fear-chill gathered o'er me 

Like a shroud around me cast, 
And I sank upon the snowdrift 

Where the shadow-hunter passed. 
And the otter-hunters found me 

Before the break of day 
With my dark hair blanched and whitened- 

As the snow on w^hich I lay. 

But they spoke not as they raised me. 

For they knew that in the night 
I had seen the shadow-hunter, 

And had withered in his blight. 
Sancta Maria speed us ! 

The sun is falling low- 
Before us lies the valley 

Of the Walker of the Snow. 

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 



THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 

To Rathlin's Isle * I chanced to sail 

When summer breezes softly blew. 
And there I heard so sweet a tale. 

That oft I wished it could be true. 
They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, 

And hushed is every tuibid swell, 
A mermaid rises from the deep, 

And sweetly tunes her magic shell. 

And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave 

In dying falls the sound retrain, 
As if some choral spirits gave 

Their aid to swell her witching strain; 
Then, summoned by that dulcet note. 

Uprising to th ' admiring view, 
A fairy island seems to float. 

With tints of many a gorgeous hue. 

And glittering fanes, and lofty towers. 
All on this fairy isle are seen ; 

And waving trees, and shady bowers. 
With more than mortal verdure green. 



: north coast < 



And as it moves, the western sky 
Glows with a thousand varying rays ; 

And the calm sea, tinged with each dye. 
Seems like a golden flood of blaze. 

They also say, if earth or stone, 

From verdant Erin's hallowed land. 
Were on this magic island thrown. 

For ever fixed it then would stand. 
But when for this some little boat 

In silence ventures from the shore. 
The mermaid sinks, hushed is the note. 

The fairy isle is seen no more, 

ANONYMOUS. 



THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye 

dwell, 
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell : 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest. 
And they called it Hv-Brasail, the isle of the 

blest; 
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim. 
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; 
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it 

lay. 
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away ! 

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale. 
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; 
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
I'^or though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail^as blest. 
He heard not the voices that called from the 

shore — 
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; 
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day. 
And he sped to Hy-Brasail. away, far away ; 

Mom rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle. 
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; 
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy 

shore 
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before ; 
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's 

track. 
And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; 
O ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! 

Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the main. 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. 



338 



POEMS OF THE I At AGIN A TION. 



Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss. 
To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. j 

The warning of reason was spoken in vain ; ! 

He never revisited Ara again ! i 

Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
And he died on the waters, away, far away, 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



THE ATLANTIC* 

Roll on. thou Ocean, dark and deep. 

Thou wilderness of waves ! 
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 

In boundless graves. 

The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, 

Yet never pierce thy gloom : 
The tempests sweep, yet never shake 

Thy mighty tomb. 

Great mystery, unfathomed bier. 

Thy secret, who hath told ?— 
Guilt, power, and passion's wild career, 

Man, and his gold. 

There lie earth's myriads in the pall, 

Secure from sword and storm. 
And he, the feaster on them all. 

The canker-worm. 

Bright from Heaven's hand, thy mountain's 
Once basked in morning's beam ; [brow 

And loved thy midnight moon to glow 
On grove and stream. 

And stately from thy tree-crowned height 

Looked down the holy fane ; 
And filled thy valley of delight 

The golden grain. 

And floated on thy twilight sky. 

The dewy field's perfume. 
The vineyard's breath of luxury, — 

Now, all the tomb ! 

An ocean shrouds thy glory now ; 

Where are thy great and brave. 
Lords of the sceptre and the bow .' — 

Answer, wild wave ! 



Crime deepened on the recreant land. 

Long guilty, long forgiven ; 
There power uprearcd the bloody hand. 

Pride scoffed at Heaven ! 

Then came the word of overthrow. 
The judgment thunders f>ealed. 

The fiery earthquake burst below,— 
Her doom was sealed ! 

Now in her halls of ivory. 

Lie ocean weed and serpents' slime ; 
Buried from man and angel's eye. 

The Land of Crime ! 

GEORGE CKOLV. 



THE AMBER WHALE. 
A harpooxer's story.* 

We were down in the Indian Ocean, after sperm, 

and three years out ; 
The last si.x months in the tropics, and looking 

in vain for a spout, — 
Five men up on the royal yards, weary of strain- 
I ing their sight ; 

I And every day like its brother,— just morning and 
j noon and night- 

Nothing to break the sameness : water and wind 
I and sun, 

I Motionless, gentle, and blazing, — never a change 
I in one. 

Every day like its brother : when the noonday 

eight-bells came, 
'Twas like yesterday; and we seemed to know 

that to-morrow would be the same. 
The foremast hands had a lazy time : there was 

never a thing to do ; 
The ship was painted, tarred down, and scraped ; 
I and the mates had nothing new. 

We'd worked at sinnet and ratline till there wasn't 

a yarn to use. 
I And all we could do was watch and pray for a 

sperm whale's spout — or news. 
It was whalers luck of the vilest sort; and. 

though many a volunteer 
: Spent his watch below on the look-out, never a 
whale came near, — 



• The localinn of a vast island, or rather continent, i 
space which now forms the bed of the Atlantic Ocean, 
subject of several ancient traditions, and is 



have a strange belief as to the formation of am- 
ber. They say that it is a petrifaction of some internal part 
of a whale ; and they tell weird stories of enormous whales 
seen in the warm latitudes, that were almost entirely trans- 
formed into the precious substance. 





vt "B^g (h^ii 



THE AMBER WHALE. 



339 



At least of the kind we wanted : there were lots 

of whales of a sort, — 
Killers and finbacks, and such like, as if they 

enjoyed the sport 
Of seeing a whale-ship idle ; but we never low- 
ered a boat 
For less than a blackfish, — tliere's no oil in a kil- 
ler's or finback's coat. 
There was rich reward for the look-out men, — 

tobacco for even a sail. 
And a barrel of oil for the lucky dog who'd be 

first to " raise " a whale. 
The crew was a mixture from every land, and 

many a tongue they spoke ; 
And when they sat in the fo'castle, enjoying an 

evening smoke. 
There were tales told, youngster, would make you 

stare, — stories of countless shoals 
Of devil-fish in the Pacific and right-whales away 

at the Poles. 
There was one of these fo'castle yarns that we 

always loved to hear, — 
Kanaka and Maori and Yankee ; all lent an eager 

ear 
To that strange old tale that was always new, — • 

the wonderful treasure-tale 
Of an old Down-East harpooner who had struck 

an Amber Whale ! 
Ay, that was a tale worth hearing, lad : if 'twas 

true we couldn't say, 
Or if 'twas a yarn old Mat had spun to while the 

time away. 

" It's just fifteen years ago," said Mat, "since I 

shipped as harpooneer 
On board a bark in New Bedford, and came 

cruising somewhere near 
To this whaling-ground we're cruising now ; but 

whales were plenty then. 
And not like now, when we scarce get oil to pay 

for the ship and men. 
There were none of these oil wells running then, 

— at least, what shore folk term 
An oil well in Pennsylvania, — but sulphur-bot- 
tom and sperm 
Were plenty as frogs in a mud-hole, and all of 

'em big whales, too; 
One hundred barrels for sperm-whales ; and for 

sulphur-bottom, two. 
You couldn't pick out a small one ; the littlest 

calf or cow 
Had a sight more oil than the big bull whales we 

think so much of now. 



We were more to the east, off Java Straits, a 
little below the mouth, — 

A hundred and five to the east'ard and nine de- 
grees to the south ; 

And that was as good a whaling-ground for mid- 
dling-sized, handy whales 

As any in all the ocean ; and 'twas always white 
with sails 

From Scotland and Hull and New England, — 
for the whales were thick as frogs, 

And 'twas little trouble to kill 'em then, for they 
lay as quiet as logs. 

And every night we'd go visiting the other whale- 
ships 'round. 

Or p'r'aps we'd strike on a Dutchman, calmed 
off the Straits, and bound 

To Singapore or Batavia, with plenty of schnapps 
to sell 

For a few whale's teeth or a gallon of oil, and the 
latest news to tell. 

And in every ship of that whaling fleet was one 
wonderful story told, — 

How an Amber Whale had been seen that year 
that was worth a mint of gold. 

And one man — mate of a Scotchman — said he'd 
seen, away to the west, 

A big school of sperm, and one whale's spout 
was twice as high as the rest; 

And we knew that that was the Amber Whale, 
for we'd often heard before 

That his spout was twice as thick as the rest, 
and a hundred feet high or more. 

And often, when the look-out cried, 'He blows!' 
the very hail 

Thrilled every heart with the greed of gold, — for 
we thought of the Amber Whale. 

■' But never a sight of his spout we saw till the 

season there went round. 
And the ships ran down to the south'ard to an- 
other whaling-ground. 
We stayed to the last off Java, and then we ran 

to the west. 
To get our recruits at Mauritius, and give the 

crew a rest. 
Five days we ran in the trade winds, and the 

boys were beginning to talk 
Of their time ashore, and whether they'd have a 

donkey-ride or a walk. 
And whether they'd spend their money in wine, 

bananas, or pearls. 
Or drive to the sugar plantations to dance with 

the Creole girls. 



340 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 



But they soon got something to talk about. Five i We soon got close as was right to go ; for the 

days we ran west-sou'-west, school might hear a hail. 

But the sixth day's log-book entry was a change Or see the bark, and that was the last of our 

from all the rest ; : Bank-of Lngland Whale. 

For that was the day the masthead men made • ' Let her luff." said the Old .Man, gently. ' Now. 

every face turn pale, I lower away, my boys. 

With the cry that we all had dreamt about, — ; And pull for a mile, then paddle, — and mind 

' He Blows ! the Amber Whale!" [ that you make no noise.' 



" And every man was motionless, and every 

speaker's lip 
Just stopped as it was, with the word half said : 

there wasn't a sound in the ship 
Till the captain hailed the masthead, ' Where- 

away is the whale you see ?' 
And the cry came down again, ' — He blows ! 

about four points on our lee. 
And three miles off, sir,— there he blows ! he's 

going to leeward fast I' 
And then we sprang to the rigging, and saw the 

great whale at last ! 

" Ah ! shipmates, that was a sight to see : the 

water was smooth as a lake. 
And there was the monster rolling, with a school 

of whales in his wake. 
They looked like pilot-fish round a shark, as if 

they were keeping guard ; 
And, shipmates, the spout of that Amber Whale 

was high as a sky-sail yard. 
There was never a ship's crew worked so quick 

as our whalemen worked that day, — 
When the captain shouted, ' Swing the boats, 

and be ready to lower away ! ' 
Then, ' A pull on the weather-braces, men ! let 

her head fall off three points ! ' 
And off she swung, with a quarter-breeze strain- 
ing the old ship's joints. 
The men came down from the mastheads ; and 

the boat's crews stood on the rail. 
Stowing the lines and irons, and fixing paddles 

and sail. 
And when all was ready we leant on the boats 

and looked at the Amber's spout. 
That went up like a monster fountain, with a 

sort of a rumbling shout, 
Like a thousand railroad engines puffing away 

their smoke. 
He was just like a frigate's hull capsized, and 

the swaying water broke 
Against the sides of the great stiff whale : he was 

steering soiith-by-west, — 
For the Cape, no doubt, for a whale can shape 

a course as well as the best. 



" A minute more, and the boats were down . 

and out from the hull of the bark 
The" shot with a nervous sweep of the oars, like 

dolphins away from a shark. 
Each officer stood in the stern, and watched, as 

he held the steering oar. 
And the crews bent down to their pulling as 

they never pulled before. 

" Our Mate was as thorough a whaleman as I 

ever met afloat ; 
And I was his harpooneer that day. and sat in 

the bow of the boat. 
His eyes were set on the whales ahead, and he 

spoke in a low, deep tone, 
And told the men to be steady and cool, and the 

whale was all our own. 
And steady and cool they proved to be : you 

could read it in every face. 
And in every straining muscle, that they meant 

to win that race. 
' Bend to it, boys, for a few strokes more, — bend 

to it steady and long ! 
Now, in with your oars, and paddles out, — all 

together, and strong ! ' 
Then we turned and sat on the gunwale, with 

our faces to the bow ; 
And the whales were right ahead, — no more than 

four ships' lengths off now. 
There were five of 'em, hundred-barrellers, like 

guards round the Amber Whale. 
And to strike him we'd have to risk being stove 

by crossing a sweeping tail ; 
But the prize and the risk were equal. ' Mat,' 

now whispers the mate, 
Are your irons ready ? ' 'Ay, ay, sir.' ' Stand up, 

then, steady, and wait 
Till I give the word, then let 'em fly, and hit him 

below the fin 
As he rolls to wind'ard. Start her, boys ! now's 

the time to slide her in ! 
Hurrah ! that fluke just missed us. Mind, as soon 

as the iron's fast, [boys, at last. 

Be ready to back your paddles, — now in for it, 
Heave! Again!" 



THE AMBER WHALE. 



341 



"And two irons flew : the first one sankin the joint, 
Tween the head and hump, — in the muscle; but 

the second had its point 
Turned off by striking the ambtr case, coming 

out again like a bow. 
And the monster carcass quivered, and rolled with 

pain from the first deep blow. 
Then he lashed the sea with his terrible flukes, 

and showed us many a sign 
That his rage was roused. ' Lay off," roared the 

Mate, ' and all keep clear of the line ! ' 
And that was a timely warning, for the whale 

made an awful breach 
Right out of the sea ; and 'twas well for us that 

the boat was beyond the reach 
Of his sweeping flukes, as he milled around, and 

made for the Captain's boat, 
That was right astern. And, shipmates, then 

my heart swelled up in my throat 
At the sight I saw : the Amber Whale was lash- 
ing the sea with rage. 
And two of his hundred-barrel guards were ready 

now to engage 
In a bloody fight, and with open j?.ws they came 

to their master's aid. 
Then we knew the Captain's boat was doomed ; 

but the crew were no whit afraid, — 
They were brave New England whalemen,— and 

we saw the harpooneer 
Stand up to send in his irons, as soon as the 

whales came near. 
Then we heard the Captain's order. ' Heave ! * 

and saw the harpoon fly. 
As the whales closed in with their open jaws : a 

shock, and a stifled cry 
Was all that we heard ; then we looked to see if 

the crew were still afloat, — 
But nothing was there save a dull red patch, and 

the boards of the shattered boat ! 

" But that was no time for mourning words : the 

other two boats came in. 
And one got fast on the quarter, and one aft the 

starboard fin 
Of the Amber Whale. For a minute he paused, 

as if he were in doubt 
As to whether 'twas best to run or fight. ' Lay 

on ! ' the Mate roared out, 
'And I'll give him a lance ! ' The boat shot in ; 

and the Mate, when he saw his chance 
Of sending it home to the vitals, four times he 

buried his lance. 
A minute more, and a cheer went up, when we 

saw that his aim was good ; ' 



For the lance had struck in a life-spot, and the 

whale was spouting blood ! 
But now came the time of danger, for the school 

of whales around 
Had aired their flukes, and the cry was raised, 

' Look out ! they're going to sound !' 
And down they went with a sudden plunge, the 

Amber Whale the last. 
While the lines ran smoking out of the tubs, he 

went to the deep so fast. 
Before you could count your fingers, a hundred 

fathoms were out ; 
And then he stopped, for a wounded whale must 

come to the top and spout. 
We hauled slack line as we felt him rise ; and 

when he came up alone. 
And spouted thick blood, we cheered again, for 

we knew he was all our own. 
He was frightened now, and his fight was gone, 

— right round and round he spun. 
As if he was trying to sight the boats, or find the 

best side to run. 
But that was the minute for us to work : the boats 

hauled in their slack. 
And bent on the drag-tubs over the stern to tire 

and hold him back, 
The bark was five miles to wind'ard, and the 

mate gave a troubled glance 
At the sinking sun, and muttered, ' Boys, we must 

give him another lance. 
Or he'll run till night ; and, if he should head to 

wind'ard in the dark. 
We'll be forced to cut loose and leave him, or 

else lose run of the bark.' 
So we hauled in close, two boats at once, but 

only frightened the whale ; 
And, like a hound that was badly whipped, he 

turned and showed his tail. 
With his head right dead to wind'ard ; then as 

straight and as swift he sped 
As a hungry shark for a swimming prey ; and, 

bending over his head, 
Like a mighty plume, went his bloody spout. 

Ah ! shipmates, that was a sight 
Worth a life at sea to witness. In his wake the 

As you've seen it after a steamei s screw, churning 

up like foaming yeast ; 
And the boats went hissing along at the rate of 

twenty knots at least. 
With the water flush with the gunwale, and the 

oars were all apeak. 
While the crews sat silent and quiet, watching 

the long, white streak 



342 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 



That was traced by the line of our passage We 

hailed the bark as we passed, 
And told them to keep a sharp look-out from the 

head of every mast ; 
'And if we're not back by sundown,' cried the 

Mate, ' you keep a light 
At the royal cross-trees. If he dies, we may stick 

to the whale all night." 

"And past we swept with our oars apeak, and 

waved our hands to the hail 
Of the wondering men on the taffrail, who were 

watchmg our Amber Whale 
As he surged ahead, just as if he thought he 

could tire his enemies out ; 
I was almost sorrowful, shipmates, to see after 

each red spout 
That the great whale's strength was failing : the 

iweep of his flukes grew slow. 
Till at sundown he made about four knots, and 

his spout was weak and low. 
Then said the Mate to his boat's crew : ■ Boys, 

the vessel is out of sight 
To the leeward : now. shall we cut the line, or 

stick to the whale all night ? ' 
•We'll stick to the whale!' cried every man. 

' Let the other boats go back 
To the vessel and beat to wind'ard, as well as 

they can, in our track.' 
It was done as they said : the lines were cut, and 

the crews cried out, ' Good speed ! ' 
As we swept along in the darkness, in the wake 

of our monster steed. 
That went plunging on, with the dogged hope 

that he'd tire his enemies still,— 
But even the strength of an Amber Whale must 

break before human will. 
By little and little his power had failed as he 

spouted his blood away. 
Till at midnight the rising moon shone down on 

the great fish as he lay 
Just moving his flukes ; but at length he stopped, 

and raising his square, black head 
As high as the topmast cross-trees, swung round 

and fell over — dead ! 

"And then rose a shout of triumph. — a shout that 

was more like a curse 
Than an honest cVieer; but, shipmates, the 

thought in our hearts was worse. 
And 'twas punished with bitter suffering. We 

claimed the whale as our own. 
And said that the crew should have no share of 

the wealth that was ours alone. 



We said to each other : We want their help till 

we get the whale aboard. 
So we'll let 'em think that they'll have a share till 

we get the Amber stored. 
And then we'll pay them their wages, and send 

them ashore — or afloat. 
If they show their It-mper. Ah! shipmates, no 

wonder 'twas that boat 
And its selfish crew were cursed that night. 

Next day we saw no sail. 
But the wind and sea were rising. Still, we held 

to the drifting whale, — 
.And a dead whale drifts to windward, — going 

farther away from the ship. 
Without water, or bread, or courage to pray with 

heart or lip 
That had planned and spoken the treachery. 

The wind blew into a gale, 
\ And it screamed like mocking laughter round 
j our boat and the Amber Whale. 

" That night fell dark on the starving crew, and 

a hurricane blew next day ; 
Then we cut the line, and we cursed the prize as 

it drifted fast away, 
I As if some power under the waves were towing 
I it out of sight ; 

And there we were, without help or hope, dread- 
ing the coming night. 
Three days that hurricane lasted. When it 

passed, two men were dead ; 
And the strongest one of the living had not 

strength to raise his head. 
When his dreaming swoon was broken by the 

sound of a cheery hail. 
And he saw a shadow fall on the boat,— it fell 

from the old bark's sail ! 
And when he heard their kindly words, you'd 

think he should have smiled 
With joy at his deliverance ; but he cried like a 

little child. 
And hid his face in his poor weak hands, — for he 

thought of the selfish plan, — 
And he prayed to God to forgive them all. And, 

shipmates, I am the man ! — 
The only one of the sinful crew that ever beheld 

his home; 
For before the cruise was over, all the rest were 

under the foam. 
It's just fifteen years gone, shipmates," said old 

Mat, ending his tale ; 
"And I often pray that I'll never see another 

Amber Whale." 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



THE GERALDINE'S SLEEP. 



343 



THE GERALDINE'S SLEEP.* 

The midnight just over, the dawning but gray, 
While birds seeic their voices I'll up and away. 
My purpose a secret my silent heart keeps — 
To see for myself if the Geraldine sleeps. 
Shall I stand as the stranger, and see as he sees.' 
No, down by the lakeside I'll kneel on my knees. 
Will the wind make no sound or the waters no 

stir, 
Where iny Geraldine lies in the depths of Lough 



I cover my face, for I blush, when 'tis said 
That the Geraldine living is still as the dead : 
That the hot blood that burst from the Boteler's 

chains 
Now runs thin and cold through the Geraldine's 

veins. 
I know, for I've heard it, how seanachies tell 
Of his steed silver-shod by the Sacsanach's spell. 
But — slumbering son of a warrior line — 
By what spell have they bound him, my own 

Geraldine ? 

Does he dream there is summer and sunshine 

above, 
And but rain falling soft on the land of his love .' 
Have her tears trickled down to the bed where 

he lies. 
And sorrows too heavy forbade him to rise ? 
Oh ! false is that dreaming and fatal that rest ; 
Now, hush thee, sweet west wind — he loved thee 

the best ; 
Wave gently and woo him to listen, fair lake. 
My Desmond, my Desmond, awake ! oh, awake ! 

False lake, must thou mimic the storms of the 

deep } 
Does thy breast rise and fall but to cradle his 

sleep } 
Art thou bound, in thy calm, by the pitiless foe. 
To hide with thy darkness the secrets below ? 
Lone and sad now I leave thee — a pilgrim in vain. 
But I'll tread thy green borders in triumph again. 
When spell against spell shall discover thy caves. 
And Desmond rides rough-shod thy traitorous 

waves. 



• Garrett Fitz Gerald, the fourth Earl of Desmond, is one 
of the spell-bound heroes of tradition, who are one day to re- 
turn and hold their own again. He sleeps in Lough Gur, in 
the County Limerick, his silver-shod steed entranced beside 
him. When the shoes are worn off the wakened horst 



The charm of the stranger is subtle and strong ; 
But ears sealed to speech will re-open to song. 
Not to me, not to me is the proud task assigned ; 
But I'll circle our Erin a File to find. 
Within a green ring where the Green People 

dwell 
He shall weave it at midnight, a spell against 

spell; 
Love, Magic and Music, Joy, Sorrow and Hope, 
Shall blend it and blind it as twists of a rope. 

Not rudely my Geraldine's trance it shall break. 
But steal on his sleeping as dawn on the lake. 
It shall tell in the tongue that his fosterhood 

spoke. 
How, weeping and bleeding, his Love wears the 

yoke; 
How his kinsfolk are scorners, his knightliest 

Long pride of the proudest, is spotted with 

shame. 
In strain sweet as mead, yet soul-stirring as 

wine, 
It shall taunt him with Thomas, " the silk of his 

kine." 

Then the long summer evening I'll sail by the 
shore 

Where Ocean keeps tryst with the faint Avon- 
more ; 

Going out with the tide, coming in with the 
flow. 

Till I win a mermaiden to sing it below. 

But mermaids are false and but sing to betray ; 

She might wake my O'Desmond to lure him 
away. 

Than King of the Deep, shared in exile with 
her, 

I'd rather he still slept his sleep in Lough Gur. 



O seed of the mountains and valleys he trod, 

Are your arms enchanted, your feet silver- 
shod? 

Ye men of his Munster, quick, circle him round ! 

The pulse of his heart-strings will leap at the 
sound. 

With foot on his shamrock and face to his skies, 

Call ye on your chief and he cannot but rise. 

Then, then the Green Lady shall reign as of 
yore. 

And the Geraldine, wakened, will slumber no 

JULI.A M. O'RYAN. 



344 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



THE MONKS OF KILCREA.* 

FYTTE I. 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 

Bare were their crowns, and their garments gray; 

Close sat they to that bogwood fire. 

Watching the wicket till break of day ; 

Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea. 

For whoever passed, be he Baron or Squire, 

Was free to call at that abbey, and stay. 

Nor guerdon, nor hire for his lodging pay. 

Though he tarried a week with its holy choir ! 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
Dark looked the night from the window pane. 
They who sat by that bogwood fire 
Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Thade by name, 
And long they gazed at the cheerful flame ; 
Till each from his neighbour began to inquire 
The tale of his life before he came 
ToSaint Bridget's shrine, and the cowl had ta'en; 
So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats 
nigher 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
Loud wailed the wind thro' cloister and nave, 
And with mournful air, by that bogwood fire, 
The first who spake it was Eustace grave. 
And told " He had been a gallant brave 
In youth, till a comrade he slew in ire : 
And he then foreswore both bastnet and glaive. 
And. leaving his home, he had crossed the wave 
And taken the cross and cowl at Saint Finbar's 
spire ! " 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 

Swift thro' the glen rushed the river Lee ; 

Alleyn next, by that bogwood fire. 

Told his tale — a woful man was he ! 

Alas ! he had loved unlawfullie ! 

But whom and where he prayed them not inquire ; 

And he fled to the altar's foot to free 

His soul from sin, and it was sad to see 

How much sorrow had wasted the mournful friar. 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 
And red its light on the rafters shone ; 
The last who spoke by that bogwood fire 
Was Thade ; of the three the only one 

• As the whole of this excellent poem makes a book of 150 
pages, only a few extracts from it can be given. Kilcrea Ab- 
bey, County Cork, was founded in 1494. by Cormac, Lord of 
Muskerry, and dedicated to St. Ilridget. Its monks belonged 
to the Franciscan Ofxler, commonly called Gray Friars. 
Cromwell subjected it to outrage and mutilation, but its ex- 
tensive ruins arc still picturesque and interesting. 



Whom care or grief had not lit upon : 
But, rosy and round, thro' city and shire 
His mate for innocent glee there was none; 
And soon frank he told. " How, a peasant's son. 
He was reared for the Church by their former 
Prior." 

Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! 

The moon looked o'er all with clouded ray; 
' And there they sat by that bogwood fire. 

Watching the wicket till break of day ; 

And many that night did call anil stay,— 
1 All whose names— if gentles, ye do not tire — 
' In his next rude strain shall the bard essay ; 
I For here ends the first fytte of " The Monks of 
i Kilcrea." 



The bell of the ablx;y had numbered ten. 
O'er tower and roof rolled its sullen chime ; 
Yet still by the fire sat those holy men. 
Keeping their ^►igil till morning's prime ; 
And much did they marvel that, ere that time 
No traveller called, as 'twas common then 
For pilgrims to flock to Saint Bridgid's shrine ; 
So they placed on the board the pitchers of wine. 
Game from the mountain, and meat from the 

pen, 
And red trout that was caught in Dripsey Glen. 

On the table were flagon and pasty good. 
On the hearth clean swept blazed a bogwood fire. 
Around were settles of the dark oak wood. 
And all that a weary guest could require. 
There was water in pans, to wash off the mire. 
Garment to don, and hose, and doe-skin shixjn ; 
In never a hostel throughout the shire 
Could you purchase for gold, or borrow for hire 
Such comforts, as freely for all. as boon. 
The monks of Kilcrea strewed around that cheer- 
ful room. 

There came a loud knock to the abbey gate. 
And a voice in the storm was heard outside, 
KvA Eustace arose from where sad he sate. 
Went to the wicket and of>enetl it wide. 
And crost the threshold with a hea\7 stride. 
A Saxon stranger ; he was sore distrait. 
And told how he lost both his way and guide. 
That his horse was drown'd in fording the Bride, 
Then took off his cloak, a dripping weight, 
And look'd like a man who for life had struggled 
late! 



THE MONKS OF KILCREA. 



345 



Again came a knock to the abbey gate, 
While sad the wind moan'd thro' bower and tree, 
And AUeyn arose, and opened the gate, 
And entered the room, a Rapparee ! 
And haggard, and pale, and begrimed was he; 
As he leant on a spear in a drooping state ! 
His scanty garments scarcely reach'd his knee, 
Yet, tho' feeble and worn was his mien and gait, 
Still he glared on the Saxon with a look of hate. 

Again came a knock to the abbey gate, 
And a voice outside made a rueful din, 
And Thade uprose and opened the gate ; 
And lo ! he ushered a Gleeman in. 
Threadbare his cloak, he was wet to the skin ; 
Yet the leer of his eye told a roguish mate. 
And he winked around with a cunning grin. 
As deep in the flagon he stuck his chin. 
And scarce would the loon for a blessing wait. 
When his kind host heaped the food on his plate ! 

And there long they sat by that bogwood fire. 
The monks of Kilcrea and those travellers three, 
And each as they sat by that bogwood fire 
Told by turns his name and his history ; 
The Saxon ! the Gleeman ! the Rapparee ! 
And, gentles, once more, if ye do not tire, 
I'll sing to you each in their due degree. 
As of old a sennachie taught the lay to me ! 

From " The Gleemax's Tale." 

The Hermit of Saint Bridget's well. 

He stands in fervent prayer, 
With hands upraised to heaven to bless 

A youth and maiden fair 

Before him kneeling there. 
"And if I err " — 'twas thus he spoke, — 

•' May saints assoil my sin. 
And the good thought that prompted this 

From heaven my pardon win. 
Save that her mother, now at rest, 
And with God's angels pure and blest. 
Had made me pledge my plighted word. 

Upon her dying bed. 
That thou, young chief of Inchiquin, 

Her daughter fair should wed, 

The holy words had ne'er been said ; 
But this, and the strong wish for peace, 
And hope those quarrels fierce will cease. 
Hath moved my breast, thro' love of thee. 

To join her fate to thine ; 
And may God's blessings on you be — 

The fault and penance mine. 
But Cormac, here thou must not stay ; 



For Onah's sake — thou shall away. 
I ween within this baronie 
Thou hast no other friend but me , 
And wert thou here one instant known, 
Begirt by fpes, and thus alone, 
Hadst thou a thousand lives, yet all 
To glut dark Donat's rage would fall , 
And then on gentle Onah's head 
His direst vengeance would be shed." 

Light to his feet the young chief sprung, 
And the good hermit's hand he wrung. 
'• Yes, Father, — yes, thy words are truth ; 

No longer must 1 tarry now, 
But for her sake, so lately mine. 
All other hopes and thoughts resign. 

And instant go ; and, dear one, thou 

Wilt see me o'er the mountain's brow." 
With tearful eyes and woful heart. 
The hermit saw his guests depart ; 
And, sinking on his bended knee, 
Aves and Paters thrice said he. 
That good Saint Bridget safe would guide 
The gallant youth to Callan side. 
With beating hearts and thoughtful air. 
Onward they went, that youthful pair ; 
Though grave, their bosoms ne'ertheless 
O'erflowed with silent happiness ; 
And linked together, hand-in-hand. 

They left that hermit good ; 
And passing by the path that ran 
Along the slopes of Lisoskan, 

On Mohir's cliffs they stood. 

The ocean broad beneath them lay, 

Spread out in countless miles ; 
And. lit with sunshine, creek and bay 

In dazzling splendor smiles ; 
And seeming nigh, though far away. 

Are Arran's holy isles. 
At the sea-verge, remote as eye 
Can object see or aught descry. 

Wild Conemera's peaks ascend ; 
But yet so faint, 'twas doubtful still 
To separate the cloud from hill — 

Outline and shape so blend. 
'Twas calm around, and you might note. 
Far down below the seagulls float. 

Poised in the middle air ; 
.-Vnd lower still, if brain and nerve 
Taught not your reeling sight to swer\'e. 

The billows whitening, where 
Beneath their surface, hid from \dew. 

Some rock opposed them there ; 



346 POEMS OF THE IMAGINA TION. 


And boiling upwards through the green 


From -The Rapparee's Tale." 


Of the clear wave, the foam is seen. 
With scattered crags, that fancy well 
Can shape to spire and pinnacle. 


The Saxon landed— young and tall. 
Fair haired, and richly dressed withal, 
With goodly sword, and golden spur. 




And scanty cloak, all faced with fur. 




With shaven lip, and cold blue eye ; 


Long gazed the chief and maiden, long 


His step was proud, his bearing high. 


Beheld with niar\el warm and strong 


And full of scorn the look he cast 


The splendid glories of this scene. 


On all around until he past 


Sleeping in loveliness serene ; 


Where Aithne stood, and then he gazed 


And buoyant hope, with mimic art. 


Like one with sudden light amazed ; 


As fair a scene within each heart 


Then sate him down and by her side 


With magic hues and tints portrayed, 


The livelong night remained to bide. 


And the dark future cloudless made ; 


I marked his face, so free and bold,— 


With mutual trust, and love sore tried. 


The courtly words his false lips told 


Ami fond fidelitie. 


To her who by his side was set 


A youthful lover and his bride- 


In blushing innocence ; and yet. 


Why should they gloomy be ? 


Although the wild fawn on the hill 


God's sky was o"er them, and around 


Was not more startled, listened still. 


The hills and mountains free ; 


All this 1 marked with jealous care ; 


Beneath their feet the sea ! 


And but 'twere infamy and shame 


Oh ! not in scene or hour like this 


To wrong a stranger's holy name ; 


Can doubt or sorrow mar the bliss. 


I would have stabbed the Saxon there ! 


The gushing love and tenderness 




Such fond and faithful hearts will bless I 


Six days he tarried ; on the first 


And what was all this world to them, 


I left the glen and sought the hill. 


Its sneers or hollow guile, 


Fearful my smothered rage might burst, 


Its wreaths of fame, or riches vain, 


And teach my erring hand to kill. 


But gauds and fardels vile ? 


So up I went to hunt the stag 


More dear to him was Onah's smile 


By the deep valley's shattered crag ; 


Than all the countless stores of gold 


But vain the wish, the effort vain,— 


In coffers claspt. that misers hold ; 


My foot lacked speed, my hand lacked aim ; 


More dear to her the soft low tone 


And thro' my heart and thro' my brain 


Of Cormac's voice to her alone 


Conflicting thoughts all fiercely prest. 


In whispered praise or vow. 


And love, and hate, and fierce disdain. 


Than brightest gem or coronet 


Like famished wolves, my soul possessed. 


In dazzling splendor ever set 


And. holy men, ye err to say 


On proud Ban Tierna"s brow ! 


That still for sinful man 'tis good 


And each the other's welfare sought. 


To dwell apart in solitude 


Without one mean or selfish thought. 


From human neighborhood away; 


With all that pure ennobling glow 


For never in the wildest hour 


By true love only given. 


That heard our slogan in the Pale, 


That teaches souls like theirs to know 


When blazing rick, and burning tower. 


A bright foretaste of heaven. 


And corn-stacks scattered in the gale. 


Oh, could such feelings only last. 


And goaded kine. and slaughtered men 


Nor age nor care their freshness blast. 


Were thick as leaves around us then. 


Or cause their bloom to flee ; 


.\nd screams and curses filled the air; — 


Nor cold neglect, nor sour distrust. 


Never. I say. within me woke. 


E'er choke their gushing founts with dust. 


"Mid all those scenes of blood and smoke. 


Then man might walk, all purified. 


Such fearful thoughts of hate and sin 


Once more with angels by his side. 


As stirred my heaving breast within, 


And earth an Eden be. 


Lone, sitting on the hill-side there ! 



THE MONKS OF KILCREA. 



347 



Like whispering fiends they thronging past. 
And each still darker than the last- 
Though oft repressed, yet still renewed. 
Oh, saints preserve in pitying mood 
The jealous heart from solitude ! 

I left the hills, and turned me home, 

And Aithne found within it, lone, 

Silent, and drooping ; sad and pale. 

She met my view, and brief her tale: 

That Tirlogh left that morn Glenbride, 

The Saxon on his way to guide, 

Nor back would come for three days space ; 

And as she spoke her conscious face 

Flushed with a deep and crimson glow. 

And tremulous her voice and low. 

And then her eye, that never yet 

But mine had frank and' freely met 

In all the purity of youth. 

Confiding innocence, and truth. 

Now changed and altered in its ray. 

Still shunned my glance and turned away, 

As if afraid her thoughts to speak ; 

And there were tears upon her cheek — 

Tears for the Saxon ! — Saint Columb ! yes ! 

And wrung from her heart by sore distress. 

And fierce my bursting soul spoke out 

Each secret thought and jealous doubt ; 

And taxed her there in words of scaith 

With falsehood's wile, and broken faith. 

At first she struggled to reply, 

With flushing cheek and kindling eye. 

But faltered soon, and silent kept. 

And only wrung her hands and wept. 

Not long this lasted. On a day 
When we had been since morn away. 
Tracking the red deer on the hills, 

Ere yet the mist the mountain left — 
Hunting the herd by bush and brook. 

And cairn, and crag, and rocky cleft. 
Until a buck, the rest apart, 
My arrow wounded in the heart. 
And all the echoes round about 
Gave back glad Tirlogh 's hunter's shout ; 
And from his belt his skeyn he drew, 
And o'er the tussochs eager flew 
To where amid the red fern gaspt 
The noble stag, his boundings past. 
And with his keen and glancing knife 
Ended its struggles with its life. 
So swift the chase, the herd so fleet. 

And we had tracked their course so far, 



That when we reached the lake once more 
The sunshine of the day was o'er, 
And on the waters, calm and gray. 
The night-mist like a mantle lay ; 

And in the sky the gloaming star 
Peeped o'er the hills as down we strode, 
Staggering beneath our heavy load. 
Methought 'twas strange to Tirlogh's cry 
That Aithne's voice gave no reply. 
.■\nd all was silent — spark nor smoke 
Above the Tinbath curling broke ; 
The doorway open, and an air 
Of strangeness on its threshold there . 
But where was Aithne.' God ! how wild 
Did Tirlogh call upon his child, 
And searched the lake, the wood, the hill. 

And all the neighbors round about ; 
But useless were our efforts still, 

And all was misery and doubt. 
And then we thought that she had gone 
.'\cross the hills to Lemnacon, 
To her mother's gossip ; and tho' late, 
.^.cross the ford we hurried straight. 
In vain — no tidings could we get, 
Nor eves had Norah on her set ; 
But a strange herd that morning met 
Two strangers riding through Glenshee, 
Whose muffled face he could not see ; 
One tall, with sword and breastplate dight, 
The other seemed a gossoon slight ; 
And that they gallop'd fleet and fast, 
And to the Saxon's country past ! 

ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHFGAN. 



BY THAT LAKE. 



By that Lake, whose gloomy shore 
Skylark never warbles o'er. 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep. 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep, 
" Here, at least," he calmly said, 
" Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah ! the good Saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — 
Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
She had lov'd him well and long, 
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong, 
Whereso'er the Saint would fly, 
Still he heard her light foot nigh ! 
East or west, wher'er he turn'd. 
Still her eyes before him burn'd. 



u^s 



POEMS OF THE JMAGJA'ATION. 



I ).i the bold cliffs hosom cast. 
iVanquil now he sleefw at last ; 
Dreams of heavn. nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
Mul nor earth nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be : 
liven now. while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 

Fearless she had track'd his feet 
To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
And when morning met his view. 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! 
Sternly from his bed he starts. 
And with rude, repulsive shock. 
Hurls her from the beetling rock. 

Glendalough. thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! 
Soon the Saint (yet ah I too late,) 
Felt her love, and mourn 'd her fate. 
When he said, " Heav'n rest her soul !" 
Round the Lake light music stole ; 
And her ghost was seen to glide. 
Smiling o'er the fatal tide. 

rnoM.^s MOORE. 



CORMAC AND MARY. 
" She is not dead — she has no grave — 

She lives beneath Lough Corrib's water; 
And in the murmur of each wave 

Methinks I catch the songs I taught her." 
Thus many an evening on the shore 

Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly; 
Still idly muttering o'er and o'er. 

" She lives, detained by spells unholy. 

" Death claims her not. too fair for earth. 

Her spirit lives — alien of heaven ; 
Nor will it know a second birth 

When sinful mortals are forgiven! 
Cold is this rock— the wind comes chill. 

And mists the gloomy waters cover: 
But O I her soul is colder still — 

To lose her God — to leave her lover ! " 

The lake was in profound repose. 

Yet one white wave came gently curling. 
And as it reach'd the shore, arose 

Dim figures — banners gay unfurling. 
Onward they move, an airy crowd : 

Thro' each thin form a moonlight ray shone. 
While spear and helm, in pageant proud. 

.■\ppear in liquid undulation 



Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread 

Theii trackless way with antic capers 
And curtain clouds hang overhead, 

Festoon'd by rainbow-color'd vapors. 
And when a breath of air would stir 

That drapery of Heaven's own wreathing. 
Light wings of prismy gossamer 

Just moved and sparkled to the breathing. 

Nor wanting was the choral song, 

Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness ; 
To sound of which this subtle throng 

Advanced in playful grace and fleetness. 
With music's strain, all came and went 

I'pon poor Cormac s doubting vision ; 
Now rising in wild merriment. 

Now softly fading in derision. 

•• Christ, save her soul." he boldly cried ; 

And when that blessed name was spoken. 
Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied. 

And vanished all,— the spell was broken, 
.^nd now on Corrib's lonely shore. 

Freed by his word from power of fairy. 
To life, to love, restored once more. 

Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary, 

TH()M.\S CROrrON CROKKR. 



THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY, 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! — 
" O listen. Ellen, sister dear! 

Is there no help at all for me. 
But only ceaseless sigh and tear.' 

Why did not he who left me here. 
With stolen hope steal memory ? 

listen, Ellen, sister dear! 
(Mournfully, sing mournfully !)— 

I'll go away to Sleamish hill, 

I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree. 
And let the spirits work their will ; 

1 care not if for good or ill. 

So they but lay the memory 
Which all my heart is haunting still ! 

(Mournfully, sing mournfully I) — 
The Fairies are a silent race. 

And pale as lily flowers to see ; 
I care not for a blanched face. 
Nor wandering in a dreamy place. 

So I but banish memory .— 
I wish I were with Anna Grace." 

(Mournfully, sing mournfully!) 



THE FAIRY CAVALCADE. 



349 



■' Hearken to my tale of woe !" 

'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con 
Her sister said in accents low, 

Her only sister, Una bawn ; 

'Twas in their bed before the dawn 
And Ellen answered, sad and slow, 

" O Una, Una, be not drawn 
(Hearken to my tale of woe !j — 

To this unholy grief, I pray. 
Which makes me sick at heart to know. 

And I will help you if I may : — 

The fairy well of Lagnanay — 
Lie nearer me, I tremble so — 

Una, I've heard wise women say 
(Hearken to my tale of woe !) 

That if before the dews arise 
True maiden in its icy flow 

With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice. 
Three lady-brackens pluck likewise. 

And three times round the fountain go. 
She straight forgets her tears and sighs !" 

Hearken to my tale of woe ! 

All, alas ! and well away ! — 

" O sister Ellen, sister sweet, 
Come with me to the hill, I pray. 

And I will prove that blessed freet." 

They rose with soft and silent feet 
They left their mother where she lay, 

Their mother and her care discreet, 
(All, alas ! and well away I) 

And soon they reached the Fairy Well, 
The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and gray. 

Wide open in the dreary fell : 

How long they stood 'twere vain to tell 
At last upon the point of day, 

Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell. 
(All, alas ! and well-away !) 

Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves 
The gliding glance that will not stay 

Of subtly-streaming fairy waves : — 

And now the charm three brackens craves. 
She plucks them in their fringed array : — 

Now round the well her fate she braves. 
All, alas ! and well-away ! 

Save us all from Fairy thrall ! 

Ellen sees her pace the rim 
Twice and thrice, and that is all — 

Fount and hill and maiden swim 

Ail together melting dim ! 
" Una ! Una !" thou may'st call. 

Sister sad ! but lith or limb 
(Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 

Never again of Una bawn, 



Where now she walks in dreamy hall. 

Shall eye of mortal look upon ! 

Oh ! can it be the guard was gone. 
That better guard than shield or wall ? 

Who knows on earth save Turlagh Daune ? 
(Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 

Behold the banks are green and bare. 
No pit is here wherein to fall : 

Aye — at the fount you well may stare. 

But nought save pebbles smooth is there, 
And small straws twirling one and all. 

Hie thee home, and be thy pray'r. 
Save us all from Fairy thrall. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE FAIRY CAVALCADE. 

Have you not oft, m the still wind, 
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind. 
That rose one moment, and then fell, 
Swooning away like a far knell.' 
Listen 1 — that wave of perfume broke 
Into sea-music, as I spoke, 
Fainter than that which seems to roar 
On the moon's silver-sanded shore. 
When through the silence of the night 
Is heard the ebb and flow of light. 

Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear! 
Do you not hear, or think you hear, 
A wide hush o'er the woodland pass, 
Like distant waving fields of grass ! — 
Voices I — ho ! ho ! — a band is coming. 
Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming, 
Or ranks of little merry men 
Tromboning deeply from the glen. 
And now, as if they changed, and rung 
Their citterns small, and riband-slung. 
Over their gallant shoulders hungl — 

A chant ! a chant ! that swoons and swells 
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells ; 
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower 
Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet flower ; 
Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear. 
Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer; 
But mixed with whoops, and infant laughter, 
Shouts following one another after. 
As on a hearty holyday 
When youth is flush and full of May ; 
Small shouts indeed, as wild bees knew 
Both how to hum, and holloa too. 



350 



POEMS OF THE /Af AGINATION. 



What ! is the liv ing meadow sown 
With dragon-teeth, as long agone ? 
Or is an army on the plains 
Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes? 
Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance, 
Gorget and glaive thro' the long g.'ass glance. 
Red-men, and blue-men, and buff-men, small, 
Loud-mouthed captains, and ensigns tall. 
Grenadiers, light-bobs, inch-people all, 
They come I they come I with martial blore 
Clearing a terrible path before; 
Ruffle the high-peaked flags i' the wind. 
Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind. 
Telling how deep the close files are. — 
Make way for the stalwart sons of war! 

Hurrah 1 the bluff-cheeked bugie band. 
Each with a loud reed in his hand ! 
Hurrah I the pattering company. 
Each with a drum-bell at his knee ! 
Hurrah ! the sash-capt cymbal swingers ! 
Hurrah! the klingle-klangle wringers! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the elf-knights enter. 
Each with his grasshopper at a canter! 
His tough spear of a wild oat made, 
His good sword of a grassy blade. 
His buckram suit of shiny laurel. 
His shield of bark, embossed with coral ; 
See how the plumy champion keeks 
His proud steed clambering on his hips, 
With foaming jaw pinned to his breast, 
Blood-rolling eyes. and arched crest; 
Over his and his rider's head 
A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread. 
Swoops round the staff in varj'ing form. 
Flouts the soft breeze, and courts the storm. 

Hard on the prancing heels of these 
Come on the pigmy Thyades ; 
Mimics and mummers, masqueraders 
Soft flutists and sweet serenaders 
Guitarring o'er the level green, 
Of tapping the parched tambounne. 
As swaying to and swaying fro. 
Over the stooping flowers they go, 
That laugh within their greeny breasts 
To feel such light feet on their crests. 
And even themselves a-dancing seem. 
Under the weight that presses them. 

But hark ! the trumpet's royal clangor 
Strikes silence with a voice of anger : 
Raising its broad mouth to the sun 
As he would bring Apollo down. 



The in-backed, swoln. elf-winder fills 
With its great roar the fairy hills ; 
Each woodland tuft for terror shakes. 
The field-mouse in her mansion quakes. 
The heart-struck wren falls thro' the branches. 
Wild stares the earwig on his haunches ; 
From trees which mortals take for flowers. 
Leaves of all hues fall off in showers ; 
So strong the blast, the voice so dread, 
'Twould wake the very fairy dead ! 

Disparted now. half to each side. 
Athwart the curled moss they glide. 
Then wheel and front, to edge the scene. 
Leaving a spacious glade between ; 
With small round eyes that twinkle bright 
As moon-tears on the grass of night. 
They stand spectorial. anxious all. 
Like guests ranged down a dancing-hall 
Some graceful pair, or more, to see 
Winding along in melody. 

Now pine their little orbs in vain, 
For borne in with an oaten strain 
Three pretty Graces, arm-entwined. 
Reel in the light curls of the wind ; 
Their flimsy pinions sprouted high 
Lift them half-dancing as they fly ; 
Like a bright wheel spun on its side 
The rapt three round their centre slide, 
And as their circling has no end. 
Voice into sister-voice they blend, 
Weaving a labyrinthian song 
Wild as the rings they trace along. 

GKORGE DARLEV. 



GARDEN FAIRIES. 
Keen was the air. the sky was very light, 
Soft with shed snow my garden was, and white. 
And walking there, I heard upon the night 

Sudden sound of little voices. 

Just the prettiest of noises. 

It was the strangest, subtlest, sweetest sound — 
It seemed above me, seemed upon the ground. 
Then swiftly seemed to eddy round and round. 

Till I said. " To-night the air is 

Surely full of garden fairies." 

And all at once it seemed I grew aware 
That little shining presences were there, [air ; 
White shapes and red shapes danced upon the 
Then a peal of silvery laughter. 
And such singing followed after 



THE FAIRY SHOEMAKER. 



As none of you, I think, have ever heard, 
More soft it was than note of any bird. 
Note after note, most exquisitely deferred, 

Soft as dew-drops when they settle 

In a fair flower's open petal. 

•' What are these fairies?" to myself I said : 
For answer then, as from a garden's bed. 
On the cold air. a sudden scent was shed — 
Scent of lilies, scent of roses, 
Scent of summer's sweetest posies. 

And said a small sweet voice within my ear, 
"We flowers that sleep thro' winter, once a 

year 
Are by our flower queen let to visit here ; 
That this fact may duly flout us — 
Gardens can look fair without us. 

"A very little time we have to play. 
Then we must go, oh ! very far away. 
And sleep again for many a long, long day. 
Till the glad birds sing above us. 
And the warm sun comes to love us. 

" Hark what the roses sing, now, as we go ; " 
Then very sweet and soft, and very low — 
A dream of sound across the garden snow — 

Came the sound of roses singing, 

To the lily-bell's faint ringing. 

" Softly sinking through the snow. 

To our winter rest we go. 

Underneath the snow to house 

Till the birds be in the boughs. 

And the boughs with leaves be fair. 

And the sunshine everywhere. 

Softly through the snow we settle. 

Little snow-drops press each petal. 

O ! the snow is kind and white, — 

Soft it is, and very light ; 

Soon we shall be where no light is. 

But where sleep is, and where night is — 

Sleep of every wind unshaken. 

Till our Summer bids us waken." 

Then toward some far-off goal that singing j 

drew. 
Then altogether ceased ; more steely blue 
The blue stars shone, but in my spirit grew 

Hope of summer, love of roses, 

Certainty that sorrow closes. 

PHILIP HilURKE MARSTON. 



THE FAIRY SHOEMAKER. 
Little cow-boy. what have you heard 

Up on the lonely rath's green mound ? 
Only the plaintive yellow bird 

Singing in sultry fields around, 
Charr)'. charry, charry. chee-e ! 
Only the grasshopper and the bee .' 
" Tip-tap. rip-rap, 
Tick-a-tack-too ! 
Scarlet leather sewn together. 

This will make a shoe. 
Left, right, pull it tight : 

Summer days are warm ; 
Underground, in winter. 
Laughing at the storm !" 
Lay your ear close to the hill. 
Do you not catch the tiny clamor ; 
Busy click of an elfin hammer, 
Voice of the Lupracaun sinking shrill, 
As he merrily plies his trade.' 
He's a span 

And a quarter in height. 
Get him in sight, hold him fast, 
And you're a made 
Man ! 

You watch your cattle the summer day, 
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; 
How should you like to roll in your carriage, 
And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ; 
Seize the Shoemaker — so you may! 

" Big boots a hunting, 
Sandals in the hall ; 
White for a wedding feast. 

And pink for a ball. 
This way, that way. 

So we make a shoe. 
Getting rich every stitch, 
•• Tick-tack-too ! " 
Nine and ninety treasure-crocks 

This keen miser-fairy hath. 
Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks. 
Ruin and round-tower, cave and rath. 
And where the cormorants build ; 
From times of old 
Guarded by him ; 
Each of them filled 
Full to the brim 
With gold ! 

I caught him at work one day myself. 

In the castle-ditch where the foxglove grows ; 

A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf. 



POEMS OF THE IMAOIXATIO.W 



Spectacles stuck on the point of his nose. 
Silver buckles to his hose. 
Leather apron — shoe in his lap — 
•• Rip-rap. tip-tap. 
Tick-tack-too ! 
A grig skipped upon my cap, 

Away the moth flew. 
Buskins for a fairy prince. 

Brogues for his son. — 
Pay me well, pay me well. 
When the job is done ! " 
The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt : 
I stared at him. he stared at me. 
■• Serxant. sir ! " " Humph ! " says he. 
And pulled a snuflf-box out. 
He took a long pinch, seemed belter pleascf 

The queer little Lupracaun ; 
Offered the box with a whimsical grace. — 
Pouf I — he flung the dust in my face. 
And. while I sneezed. 
Was gone I 

WILLIAM .AI.LIXGHAM. 



THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE. 
Tap, tap! Rap. rap! "Get up, Gaffer Ferryman!" 
" Eh ? who is there ?" The clock strikes three. 
" Get up — do. Gaffer ! you are the \ er\' man 

We have been long — long — longing to see. " 
The Ferryman he rises, growling and grumb- 
ling, [tumbling. 
And goes fum-fumbling. and stumbling and 
Over the wares on his way to the door • 

But he sees no more 

Than he saw before. 
Till a voice is heard—" O Ferryman, dear ! 
Here we are waiting, all of us here ! 
We are a wee, wee colony, we ; 
Some two hundred in all, or three. 
Ferr)' us over the river Lee 

Ere dawn of day, 

And we will pay 

The most we may. 

In our own wee way !" 



Who; 



What 



you? Whence came you: 
place are you going to.'" 
" O, we have dwelt over long in this land. 
The people get cross, and are growing so 
knowing, too ; 
Nothing at all but they now understand : 
We are daily vanishing under the thunder 
Of some huge engine or iron wonder ; 



That iron — O, it has entered our souls!" 

" Your souls.' O, Goles ! 

You queer little drolls! [with speed. 

Do you mean .'" " Good Gaffer, do aid us 

For our time, like our stature, is short indeed ! 
And a very long way we have to go. 
Eight or ten thousand miles or so. 
Hither and thither, and to and fro. 
With our pots and pans, 
.And little gold cans ; 
I But our light caravans 

I Run swifter than Man's !" 

" Well, well, you may come !" said the Ferry- 
man, affably ; 
' Patrick ! turn out. and get ready the 
barge !" 
Then again to the little folk : " Though you 
seem laughably 
Small. I don't mind, if your coppers be 
large." 
O, dear ! what a rushing, what pushing, what 

crushing 
(The waterman making vain efforts at hushing 
The hubbub the while) there followed these 
words I 
1 What clapping of boards ! 

I What strapping of cords ! 

What stowing away of children and wives. 
And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and 

knives! 
Till all had safely got mto the boat. 
And the Ferrj-man clad in his tip-top coat, 
And his wee little farers were fairly afloat ! 
Then ding! ding! ding! 
And kling! kling! kling! 
How the coppers did ring 
In the tin pitcherling? 

Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly. 

Smoothly, and so forth, but after a while 
It swayed and it swagged this and that way. 

and presently 
Chest after chest, and pile after pile. 
Of the little folk's goods began tossing and 

rolling. 
And pitching like fun. beyond fairy control- 

ing! 
O. Mab ! if the hubbub was great before. 
It was now some two or three million times 

more ; 
Crash went the wee crocks and the clocks ; 

and the locks 
Of each little wee box were stove in by hard 

knocks ; 



EDWIN OF THE GREEX. 



353 



And then there were oaths, and prayers, 

and cries — 
" Take care !" — " see there 1" — " oh, dear ! 

my eyes !" 
" I am killed " — " I am drowned "—with 
groans and sighs; 
Till to land they drew ; 
" Yeo heo ! Pull to ! 
Tiller-rope, thro' and thro !" 
And all's right anew. 

" Now, jump ashore, ye queer little oddities ! 
Eh ! what is this ? Where are they at all ? 
Where are they, and where are their tiny 
commodities? 
Well, as I live !" — He looks blank as a wall. 
The poor Ferryman. Round him and round 
him he gazes. 
But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes 
Of utter bewilderment I — all, all are gone. 
And he stands alone. 
Like a statue of stone. 
In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, 
And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear. 
With other odd sounds ; — " Ha, ha ! ha, ha ! 
Tol-lol, zid-ziddle — quee-quee — bah-bah ! 
Fizzigigiggidy ! — psha, sha, sha !" 
■■ O, ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves !" 
The good man cries; he turns to his pitcher 
And there, alas ! to his horror perceives 
That the little folk's mode of making him 
richer 
Has been to pay him with — withered leaves ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



EDWIN OF THE GREEN. 

A Fairy Tale in the Ancient Style. 

In Britain's isle and Arthur's days, 
When midnight fairies daunced the maze, 

Lived Edwin of the Green : 
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
Endow'd with courage, sense and truth, 

Tho' badly shap'd he'd been. 

His mountain back might well be said 
To measure heighth against his head. 

And lift itself above ; 
Yet spite of all that nature did 
To make his uncouth form forbid. 

This creature dar'd to love. 



He felt the charms of Edith's eyes. 
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 

Cou'd ladies look within ; 
But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art, 
And, if a shape could win a heart. 

He had a shape to win. 

Edwin (if right I read my song) 
With slighted passion pac'd along 

All in the moony light ; 
'Twas near an old enchanted court. 
Where sportive fairies made resort 

To revel out the night. 

His heart was drear, his hope was cross 'd 
'Twas late, 'twas far. the path was lost. 

That reach'd the neighbour-town ; 
With weary steps he quits the shades, 
Resolv'd the darkling night he treads. 

And drops his limbs adown. 

But feant he lays him on the floor, 
When hollow winds remove the door ; 

A trembling rocks the ground : 
And (well I ween to count aright) 
At once an hundred tapers light 

On all the walls around. 

Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
Now sounding feet approachen near. 

And now the sounds encrase : 
And from the corner where he lay 
He sees a train profusely gay 

Come prankling o'er the place. 

But (trust me, gentles) never yet 
Was dight a masquing half so neat. 

Or half so rich before ; 
The country lent the sweet perfumes. 
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes. 

The town its silken store. 

Now, whilst he gazed, a gallant drest 
In flaunting robes above the rest. 

With awful accent cry'd : — 
" What mortal of a wretched mind. 
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind. 

Has here presum'd to hide .'" 

At this the swain, whose vent'rous sou 
No fears of magick art controul. 

Advanced in open sight; 
" Nor have I cause of dreed," he said, 
" Who view, by no presumption led. 

Your revels of th: night. 



-C4 POEMS OF THE 


IMAGINATION. \ 


•• "Twas grief for scorn of faithful love. 


When screaming all at once they fly. 


Which made my steps unweeting rove 


And all at once the tapers dye ; 


Amid the nightly dew." 


Poor Edwin falls to floor ; | 


" Twas well ! " the gallant cries again ; 


Forlorn his state, and dark the plare 


*' We fairies never injure men 


Was ever wight in sike a case 


Who dare to tell us true. 


Through all the land before ? 


•• Exalt thy love-dejected heart. 


But soon as dan Apollo rose. 


Be mine the task, or ere we part. 


Full jolly creature home he goes. 


To make thee grief resign : 


He feels his back the less : 


Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce: 


His honest tongue and steady mind 


Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce. 


Had rid him of the lump behind, , 


Be little Mabel thine." 


Which made him want success. [ 


He spoke, and all a sudden there 


With lusty lively hed he talks. 


Light music floats in wanton air : 


He seems a dauncing as he walks. 


The monarch and the queen : 


His stor)' soon took wind ; ' 


The rest their fairie partners found ; 


And beauteous Edith sees the youth , 


And Mabel trimly tript the ground 


Endow'd with courage, sense and truth. 


With Edwin of the Green. 


Without a bunch behind. 


The dauncing past, the board was laid. 


The story told. Sir Topaz movd. ' 


And siker such a feast was made 


(The youth of Edith erst approv'd) 


As heart and lip desire ; 


To see the revel scene : 


Withouten hands the dishes fly. 


At close of eve he leaves his home. 


The glasses with a wish come nigh. 


And wends to find the ruin'd dome 


And with a wish retire. 


All on the gloomy plain. 


But now to please the faine King, 


As there he bides, it so befell. 


Full ev'ry deal they laugh and sing. 


The wind came rushing down a dell, 


And antick feats devise ; 


A shaking seiz'ri the wall ; 


Some wind and tumble like an ape, 


Up spring the tapers as before. 


And other some transmute their shape 


The fairies bragly foot the floor, 


In Edwin's wond'ring eyes. 


And musick fills the hall. 


Till one at last, that Robin hight 


But certes sorely sunk with woe 


(Renown 'd for pinching maids by night) 


Sir Topaz sees the elfin show. 


Has hent him up aloof : 


His spirits in him dye; 


And full against the beam he flung. 


When Oberon cr>s : " A man is near ; 


Where by the back the youth he hung. 


A mortal passion, cleeped fear. 


To spraul unneath the roof. 


Hangs flagging in the sky." 


From thence " Reverse my charm," he crys. 


With that Sir Topaz (hapless youth !) 


■• And let it fairly now suffice 


In accents faulfring ay foi ruth 


The gambol has been shown ; " 


Intreats them pity graunt ; 


But Oberon answers with a smile. 


For als he been a mister wight. 


•■ Content thee Edwin for a while ; 


Betray d by wandring in the night. 


The vantage is thine own." 


To tread the circled haunt. 


! Here ended all the phantome play ; 


" Ah, lofell vile !" at once they roar ; 


! They smelt the fresh approach of day. 


• And little skiird of fairie lore. 


And heard a cock to crow ; 


Thy cause to come we know ; 


The whirling wind that bore the crowd 


Now has thy kestrell courage fell. 


Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud. 


And fairies, since a lie you tell. 


To warn them all to go. 


Are free to work thee woe. ' 



THE LAXD OF JiEST. 



Then Will, who bears th2 wispy fire 
To trail the swains among the mire, 

The caitive upward flung; 
There like a tortoise in a shop 
He dangled from the chamber-top. 

Where whilome Edwin hung. 

The revel now proceeds apace, 
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, 

They sit, they drink, and eat ; 
The time with frolick mirth beguile, 
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 

Till all the rout retreat. 

By this the stars began to wink ; 
They shriek, they fly. the tapers sink 

And down y'drops the knight . 
For never spell by fairie laid 
With strong enchantment bound a glade 

Beyond the length of night. 

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay 
Till up the welkin rose the day. 

Then deem'd the dole was o'er; 
But wot ye well his harder lot : — 
His seely back the bunch has got 

Which Edwin lost afore. 

This tale a sybil-nurse ared ; 

She softly strok'd my youngling head, 

And when the tale was done. 
" Thus some are born, my son " (she crys), 
" With base impediments to rise. 

And some are born with none. 

" But virtue can itself advaunce, 

To what the fav'rite fools of chaunce. 

By fortune seem'd design'd ; 
Virtue can gain the odds of fate 
And from itself shake ofT the weight 

Upon th' unworthy mind." 

THOM.4S PARNELL. 



THE LAND OF REST. 

A land of youth, a land of rest, 

A land from sorrow free ; 
It lies far off in the golden west. 

On the verge of the azure sea. 
A swift canoe of crystal bright. 

That never met mortal view. — 
We shall reach the land ere fall of night. 

In that strong and swift canoe ; 
We shall reach the strand 
Of that sunny land. 



From druids and demons free ; 

The land of rest 

In the golden west 
On the verge of the azure sea ! 

A pleasant land of widening vales, bright 

streams and verdurous plains. 
Where summer all the live-long year in 
changeless splendor reigns ; [bloom ; 
A peaceful land of calm delight, of everlasting 
Old age and death we never know, nor sick- 
ness, care or gloom ; 
The land of youth. 
Of love and truth. 
From pain and sorrow free. 
The land of rest 
In the golden west. 
On the verge of the azure sea ! 

There are strange delights for mortal men in 

that island of the west 
The sun comes down each evening in its 
golden vales to rest ; 
And though far and dim 
On the ocean's rim 
It seems to mortal view. 
We shall reach its halls 
Ere the evening falls. 
In my strong and swift canoe ; 
And evermore 
That verdant shore 
Our happy home shall be ; 
The land of rest 
In the golden west. 
On the verge of the azure sea ! 

It will guard thee, gentle Connla. of the 

flowing golden hair. 
It will g-uard thee from the druids. from the 

demons of the air. 
My crystal boat will guard thee till we reach 
1 that western shore. 

I Where thou and I in joy and love shall live 
j forevermore. 

From the druid's incantation. 

From his black and deadly snare. 
From the withering imprecation 
Of the demon of the air. 
It will guard thee, gentle Connla. of the 
! flowing golden hair ; 

My crystal boat shall guard thee till we reach 

that silver strand 
Where thou shalt reign in endless joy. the 
King of the Fairyland I 

I PATRICK WESTON JUVCE. 



356 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



THE SLEEPER'S SAIL. 

' Mother ! I've been on the cliffs out yonder. 
Straining my eyes o'er the breakers free. 
To the lovely spot where the sun was setting. 
Setting and sinking into the sea. 

The sky was full of the fairest colors. 
Pink and purple and paley green : 

With great soft masses of gray and amber, 
And great bright rifts of gold between. 

And all the birds that way were flying. 

Heron and curlew overhead. 
With a mighty eagle westward floating, 

Every plume in their pinions red. 

And then I saw it, the fair>' city. 
Far away o'er the waters deep ; 

Towers and castles and churches glowing 
Like blessed dreams that we see in sleep. 

What is its name ? " " Be still, a cushla, 
(Thy hair is wet with the mist, my boy). 

Thou hast looked, perchance, on the Tir- 
na-n'oge, 
Land of eternal youth and joy. 

Out of the sea when the sun is setting. 
It rises golden and fair to view ; 

No trace of ruin or chanfje of sorrow, 
No sign of age where all is new. 

' Forever sunny — forever blooming — 

Nor cloud, nor frost can touch that spot ; 
Where the happy people are ever roaming. 
The bitter pangs of the past forgot." 

' Mother ! we've known no end of trouble 
Since the night when father was drowned 
i' the bay ; 
The cow lies dead in the poor old stable, 
The black bread fails us day by day. 

' Why should we hunger, weep and hunger, 
Your cheeks grow hollow, your hair turn 
white. 
When over the sea to the Tir-na-n'oge 
In father's boat we can sail to-night.'" 

' Nay, nay, my boy, lie down and slumber ; 
God's ways arc dim to human pride : 
None dare sail to the Tir-na-n'oge 
Save those whom angels come to guide." 



The lad's dark eyes grew wide and misty, j 
The eager flush his cheeks forsook : ^ 

As he laid him down on his bed of heather. 
The wind the crazy cabin shook. 

Hunger and cold and want and sorrow ' 
Howled, like wolves, at the broken wall : 

But wrapt in the arms of a weary mother, i 

The brave young heart forgets them all. , 

And the gloom melts into a sunset splendor, t 

A castled isle in the rosy west, [thronging, I 

Where the happy souls the shores are I 

Of the Golden City of endless rest. ■ 

Xone dare sail to the Tir-na-n'cge, | 

Sazie those whom angels come to guide !" ' 

In his deep, deep sleep, the little dreamer j 

Sees the door of the house set wide. j 

And a beckoning shape, vague, tall and i 
shining. 
With flick'ring hair in the doorway stands: 
The deep eyes draw him — a strange voice 
calls him — 
While sleep relaxes the mother's hands. 

Ah ! little she dreams that the gentle patter. 

Of her boy's bare feet on the homely floor. 
Like the sound of rain on the hawthorn 
falling, 

Will stir the pulse of her heart no more ! 

Little she dreams that his clear eyes never 
Again in her face the smile shall seek; 

Or his young arms clasp her neck, while ever 
The bright lips warm her withered cheek ! 



He feels the salt wind past him rushing. 
The moonlit cliffs are white as snow. 

As step by step, he slowly clambers 
Down to his father's boat below. 

• How close it seems — the fairy city — 
More bless 'd and beauteous than before ; 

The moonshine, like a bridge of silver. 
Stretching away to its flow'ry shore. 

What matter if the sail be broken .' 
The hands of angels guide my boat : 

We'll sing the Ave Maris Stella, 
As down the pleasant tide we float. 

" O fair and lovely Tir-na-n'oge ! 

1 see thy castles close at hand : 
Thy fragrant winds are wafted o'er mc, 

The happy saints are on the strand. 



THE CHURCH-YARD BRWE. 



357 



My father! — is it he? how altered 1 

Bright — strong? Gray-haired and poor 
no more ? 

Good Angel ! hold the boat securely, — 
'Tis but a step — I'll leap ashore." 

High on the cliffs the lighthouse keeper 
Caught the sound of a piercing scream ; — 

Low in her hut the lonely widow 
Moaned in the maze of a troubled dream ; 

And saw in her sleep a seaman ghostly, 
With seaweeds clinging in his hair, 

Into her room, all wet and dripping, 
A drowned boy on his bosom bear. 

Vainly the lighthouse keeper lingered. 
And peered, good soul, thro' the moonlit 

Vainly the widow, waking, fingered [pane; 
The empty bed where her boy had lain. 

Over Death's sea on a bridge of silver, 
The child to his Father's arms had passed ; 

Heaven was nearer than Tir-na-n'oge, 
And the Golden City was reached at last. 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 



THE CHURCH-YARD BRIDE. 
The bride she bound her golden hair — 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
And her step was light as the breezy air. 
When it bends the morning flowers so fair. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! [light. 

As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's 
Her bridal vows of love to plight. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ; — 
" Why tarries the bride of my bosom now. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ?" 

A cry — a cry ! 'twas her maiden spoke, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
" Your bride is asleep — she has not awoke , 
And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke, 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'." 



Sir Turlough sank with a heavy moan, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
And his cheek became like the marble stone — 
'• Oh, the pulse of my heart is forever gone ! 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 

Now the keen is loud ; it comes again, 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
And rises sad from the funeral train. 
As in sorrow it winds along the plain 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

And, oh, but the plumes of white were fair, 

Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! 
When they flutter'd all mournful in the air, 
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

There is a voice that but one can hear, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
And it softly pours, from behind the bier. 
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The keen is loud, but that voice is low, 

Kinee\'y, oh, Killeevy ! 
And it sings its song of sorrow slow, [woe. 
And names young Turlough's name with 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The grave is closed, and the Mass is said, 

Killeev)-, oh. Killeevy ! 
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, 
The fairest corpse among the dead, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The wreaths of virgin white are laid, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
By virgin hands o'er the spotless maid ; [fade 
And flowers are strewn, but they soon will 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" Oh, go not yet — nor yet away, 
Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
Let us feel that lift- is near our clay," 
The long departed seem to say. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

But the, tramp and the voices of life are gone, 

Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! 
And beneath each cold forgotten stone. 
The mouldering dead sleep all alone. 
By the bonnie g^reen woods of Killeevy. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATKW 



But who is he who lingereth yet ? 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet. 
And his heart in the bridal grave is set. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeex'y. 



Again the funeral voice came o'er. 

Killeevy. oh. Killeevy I 
The ptassing breeze, as it wailed before. 
And streams of mournful music bore. 
By the bonnie gjreen woods of Killeevy. 



Oh, who but Sir Turlough. the young and " If I to thy youthful heart am dear. 

Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! [brave. , Killeevy. oh, Killeevy ! [here 

Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, | One month from hence thou wilt meet me 

And to his death-bound Eva rave, Where lay thine Evas bridal bier. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.' 



" Weep not — weep not." said a lady fair, 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
" Should youth and valor thus despair. 
And pour their vows to the empty air. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy .'" 

There's charmed music upon her tongue, 

Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
Such beauty —bright, and warm, and young- 
Was never seen the maids among. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

A laughing light, a tender grace, 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
Sparkled in beauty around her face. 
That grief from mortal heart might chase. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, 

Killeevy. oh. Killeevy! 
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ; 
She rests beneath that grassy pall. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
And now that thy plighted love is free. 
Oh, give its unbroken pledge to me. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'." 

The charm is strong upon Turlough 's eye, 

Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
His faithless tears are alre.idy dry. 
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" To thee," the charmed chief replied, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
•' I pledge that love o'er my buried bride ; 
Oh ! come, and in Turlough 's hall abide. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 



He pressed her lif>s as the words were spoken, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
.And his banshee s wail — now far and broken. 
Murmured : " Death," as he gave the token. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevj'. 

" Adieu — adieu !" said the lady bright, 

Killeevy. oh. Killeevy ! 
.\nd she slowly passed like a thing of light. 
Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

\ow Sir Turlough has death in everj' vein, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! [main 

.\nd there's fear and grief o'er his wide do- 
.Vnd gold for those who will calm his brain, 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

'• Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevj' ! 
Sir Turlough the brave, green Truagha's pride 
Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.' 

The leech groaned loud : " Come tell me this, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss. 
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss, 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.'" 

• The banshee's cry is loud and long, 

Killeevy, oh Killeevy! 
.At eve she weeps her funeral song. 
And it floats on the twilight breeze along. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 

•' Then the fatal kiss is given^thc last 

Killeevy, oh. Killeevy ! 
Of Turlough's race and name is past. 
His doom is seal'd, his die is cast. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy, 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



359 



" Leech, say not that thy skill is vain, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain. 
And half his lands thou shalt retain. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 

The leech has failed, and the hoary priest, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
With pious shrift has his soul released. 
And the smoke is high of his funeral feast. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The shanachies now are assembled all, 

Killeevy, oh Killeevy ! 
And songs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall 
To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

And there is trophy, banner, and plume, 

Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! 
And the pomp of death with its darkest gloom 
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb. 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ! 

The month is closed, and green Truagha's 
pride, 
Killeevy, oh, Killeevy ! 
Is married to death — and, side by side. 
He slumbers now with his church-yard bride 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

WILLIAM CWRLETON. 



THE BANSHEE'S SUMMONS. 
I am come. I am come from the land unknown. 
For the earth I have quitted my airy throne, 
I have left the heights of yon starry sphere. 
To sing his dirge in a mortal's ear. 
UIHlu, Ullilu.' morn comes fast, 
A soul will have sped ere the moonlight's past. 

I am come, I am come, as I came before 

To the sires of thy house in the days of yore ; 

Many a chieftain has heard my cry — 

Many a dame of thy ancestry. 

Ullilu, Ullilu! thou must go 

To join them either in joy or woe. 

Hast thou call'd up tears to the widow's ej^e .' 
Hast thou listen'd in vain to the orphan's cry .' 
Hast thou driven the hungry' from thy door? 
Or taken the roof from the starving poor.' 
Ullilu, Ullilu .' take the cost ! 
Ye mourners weep, for a soul is lost! 



Hast t'nou seen thy country sunk in woe, 
And taken the side of the tyrant foe ? 
Or a traitorous part has thy bosom played. 
Hast thou risen on the wreck of friends 
Ullilu, 67///W.'' then weep on, [betrayed.- 

Ye mourners, weep, for a soul is gone ! 

Or hast thou striven for the good of all } — 
Did danger daunt not— nor death appal? 
Didst thou urge thy way in virtue's path. 
Fearing no vials of human wrath? 
Ullilu, Ullilu .' earth must wail. 
But heaven's bright angels record the tale. 

Tremble not then, as thou hear'st my cry; 
Why should a good man fear to die ? 
Mourners, let your mourning cease. 
Such a death is the soul's release. 
Away on the morn's first beam I soar, 
A sleeper will waken on earth no more. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.* 



' A tale of forests a 



Where a lone castle by the sea 

Upreared its dark and moldering pile, 
Far seen, with all its frowning towers. 

For many and many a weary mile ; 
The wild waves beat the castle walls, [ers. 

And bathed the rocks with ceaseless show- 
The winds roared fiercely round the pile. 

And moaned along its moldering towers. 

Within those wide and echoing halls, 

To guard her from a fatal spell, 
A maid of noble lineage born 

Was doomed in solitude to dwell. 
Five fairies graced the infant's birth 

With fame and beauty, wealth and power ; 
The sixth by one fell stroke reversed 

The lavish splendors of her dower. 

Whene'er the orphan's lily hand 

A spindle's shining point should pierce. 
She swore upon her magic wand. 

The maid should sleep a hundred years. 
The wild waves beat the castle wall, [ers : 

And bathed the rocks with ceaseless show- 
Dark heaving billows plunge and fall 

In whitening foam beneath the towers. 

* This poem was conjointly written by Mrs. Whitman and 
her sister. Miss Power, although only the name of Mrs. 
Whitman is appended to it. 



;6o 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



There, rocked by winds and lulled by waves, 

In youthful grace the maiden grew, 
And from her solitary dreams 

A sweet and pensive pleasure drew ; 
Yet often, from her lattice high, 

She gazed athwart the gathering night, 
To mark the sea-gulls wheeling by. 

And longed to follow in their flight. 

One winter night, beside the hearth 

She sat and watched the smoldering fire. 
While now the tempest seemed to lull. 

And now the winds rose high and higher; 
Strange sounds are heard along the wall, 

Dim faces glimmer thro' the gloom. 
And still mysterious voices call. 

And shadows flit from room to room. 

Till, bending o'er the dying brands. 

She chanced a sudden gleam to see : 
She turned the sparkling embers o'er. 

And lo I she finds a golden key ! 
Lured on, as by an unseen hand. 

She roamed the castle o'er and o'er, 
Through many a darkling chamber sped. 

And many a dusky corridor \— 

And still, through unknown, winding ways 

She wandered on for many an hour, 
For gallery still to gallery leads. 

And tower succeeds to tower. 
Oft wearied with the steep ascent. 

She lingered on her lonely way. 
And paused beside the pictured walls. 

Their countless wonders to sur\ey. 

At length upon a narrow stair 

That wound within a turret high. 
She saw a little low-browed door. 

And turned, her golden key to trj' ; 
Slowly beneath her trembling hand 

The bolts recede, and backward flung 
With harsh recoil and sullen clang 

The door upon its hinges swung. 

There in a little moonlit room. 

She sees a wierd and withered crone. 
Who sat and spun amid the gloom. 

And turned her wheel with drowsy drone. 
With mute amaze and wondering awe 

A passing moment stood the maid. 
Then, entering at the narrow door. 

More near the mystic task surveyed. 



A sudden longing seized her breast. 

To twine the fleece, to turn the wheel : 
She stretched her lily hand, and pierced 

Her finger with the shining steel ! 
Slowly her hea%y eyelids close. 

She feels a drowsy torpor creep 
From limb to limb, till every sense 

Is locked in an enchanted sleep. 

A dreamless slumber, deep as night. 

In deathly trance her senses locked ; 
At once through all its massive vaults 

And gloomy towers the castle rocked 
The beldame roused her from her lair, 

And raised on high a mournful wail,- 
A shrilly scream that seemed to float 

A requiem on the dying gale. 

" A hundred years shall pass," she said, 

" Ere those blue eyes behold the morn. 
Ere these deserted halls and towers 

Shall echo to a bugle-horn ; 
A hundred Norland winters pass. 

While drenching rams and drifting snows 
Shall beat against the castle walls. 

Nor wake thee from thy long repose. 

" A hundred times the golden grain 

Shall wave beneath the harvest moon ; 
Twelve hundred moons shall wax and wane 
I Ere yet thine eyes behold the sun I" 
She ceased : but still the mystic rhyme 
The long-resounding aisles prolong, 
j And all the castle's echoes chime 
! In answering cadence to her song. 

She bore the maiden to her bower, 
I An ancient chamber wide and low. 
Where golden sconces from the wall 

A faint and trembling lustre throw; 
A silent chamber, far apart. 

Where strange and antique arras hung. 
That waved along the moldering walls. 

And in the gusty night wind swung. 
She laid her on her ivorj' bed. 

And gently smoothed each snowy limb. 
Then drew the curtain's dusky fold 

To make the entering daylight dim, 

II. 
.And all around, on every side. 
Throughout the castle's precincts wide. 

In every bower and hall. 
All slept : — the warder in the court. 
The figures on the arras wrought. 

The steed within his stall. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



361 



No more the watch-dog bayed the moon. 
The owlet ceased her boding tune, 

The raven on his tower, 
All hushed in slumber still and deep, 
Enthralled in an enchanted sleep, 

Await th' appointed hour. 

A pathless forest, wild and wide, 
Engirt the castle's inland side. 

And stretched for many a mile ; 
So thick its deep, impervious screen. 
The castle towers were dimly seen 

Above the moldering pile. 

So high the ancient cedars sprung. 
So far aloft their branches flung. 

So close the covert grew, 
No foot its silence could invade. 
No eye could pierce its depths of shade. 

Or see the welkin through. 

Yet oft, as from some distant mound 
The traveller cast his eyes around. 

O'er wold and woodland gray. 
He saw, athwart the glimmering light 
Of moonbeams, on a misty night, 

A castle far away 

A hundred Norland winters passed , 

While drenching rains and drifting snows 
Beat loud against the castle walls. 

Nor broke the maiden's long repose. 
A hundred times on vale and hill 

The reapers bound the golden corn — 
And now the ancient halls and towers 

Re-echo to a bugle-horn ! 

A warrior from a distant land. 

With helm and hauberk, spear and brand 

And high, untarnished crest. 
By visions of enchantment led, 
Hath vowed, before the morning's red. 

To break her charmed rest. 

From torrid clime beyond the main 
He comes the costly prize to gain. 

O'er deserts waste and wide ; 
No dangers daunt, no toils can tire, — 
With throbbing heart and soul on fire 

He seeks his sleeping bride. 

He gains the old, enchanted wood. 
Where never foot of mortal trod. 

He pierced its tangled gloom ; 
A chillness loads the lurid air. 
Where baleful swamf)-fires gleam and glare. 

His pathway to illume. 



Well might the warrior's courage fail, 
Well might his lofty spirit quail. 

On that enchanted ground ; 
No open foeman meets him there, 
But, borne upon the murky air. 

Strange horror broods around. 

At every turn his footstep sank 

Mid tangled boughs and mosses dank. 

For long and weary hours. 
Till, issuing from the dangerous wood. 
The castle full before him stood, 

With all its flanking towers ! 

The moon a paley lustre sheds ; 
Resolved, the grass-grown court he treads 

The gloomy postal gained. 
He crossed the threshold's magic bound, 
He paced the hall, where all around 

A deathly silence reigned. 

No fears his venturous course could stay 
Darkling he groped his dreary way, — 

Up the wide stair-case sprang : 
It echoed to his mailed heel ; 
With clang of arms and clash of steel 

The silent chambers rang. 

He sees a glimmering taper gleam 
Far off, with faint and trembling beam. 

Athwart the midnight gloom ; 
Then first he felt the touch of fear. 
As with slow footsteps drawing near. 

He gained the lighted room. 

And now the waning moon was low. 
The perfumed tapers faintly glow. 

And, by their dying gleam. 
He raised the curtain's dusky fold. 
And lo ! his charmed eyes behold 

The lady of his dream ! 

As violets peep from wintry snows. 
Slowly her heavy lids unclose. 

And gently heaves her breast ; 
But all unconscious was her gaze. 
Her eye with listless langour strays 

From brand to plumy crest. 

.i^ rising blush begins to dawn. 
Like that which steals at early morn 

Across the eastern sky ; 
And slowly, as the morning broke. 
The maiden from her trance awoke, 

Beneath his ardent eye I 



.^62 



POKMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



As the first kindling sunbeams threw 
Their level light athwart the dew. 

And tipped the hills with flame, 
The silent forest boughs were stirred 
With music, as from bee and bird 

A mingling murmur came. 

From out its depths of tangled sloom, 
There came a breath of dewy bloom, 

And from the valleys dim 
A cloud of fragrant incense stole. 
As if each violet breathed its soul 

Into that floral hymn. 

Loud neighed the steed within his stall. 
The cock crowed on the castle wall. 

The warder wound his horn : 
The linnet sang in leafy bower, 
The swallows, twittering from the tower. 

Salute the rosy morn. 

But fresher than the rosy morn. 
And blither than the bugle-horn. 

The maiden's heart doth prove. 
Who, as her beaming eyes awake. 
Beholds a double morning break. 

The dawn of light and love ! 

SARAH HELEN WHIT.MAN. 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 
One morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood, disconsolate : 
And as she listened to the springs 

Of Life within, like music flowing. 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half open portal glowing. 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place 

" How happy." exclaim'd this child of air, 
" Are the holy Spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall , 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea. 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blossom of Heaven outblooms them all I 

•' Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear. 

And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall : 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray, 
Yet — O, 'tis only the Blest can say [all ! 

How the waters of Heaven ouuhine them 



I "Go, wing thy flight from .star to star, 
[ From world to luminous world,.as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wa 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years. 
One minute of Heaven is worth them all I " 

The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; 
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
To her sad song, a teardrop glisten'd 
Within his eyelids, like the spray 

From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flow'r. which — Brahmins say - 

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise. 

"Nymph of a fair but erring line ! " 
Gently he said — "One hope is thine 
Tis written in the Book of Fate, 

Tht- I'eri yet may be forgiven 
H 'ho brings to this Eternil gate 

The Gift that is most ilear to Heaven > 
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin— 
'Tis sweet to let the Pardon'd in." 

Rapidly as comeu run 

To the embraces of the sun ; — 

Fleeter than the starrj' brands 

Flung at night from angel hands. 

At those dark and daring sprites 

Who would climb the empyreal heights, 

Down the blue vault the Peri flies. 

And. lighted earthward by a glance 
That just then broke from morning's eyes. 

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. 

But whither shall the spirit go 

To find this gift for Heav'n — "I know 

The wealth," she cries, "of every urn 

In which unnumbered rubies burn. 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; 

1 know where the Isles of Perfume are, 

Many a fathom down in the sea. 

To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 

I know, too, where the Genii hid 

The jewelled cup of their King Jamshid 

With life's elixir sparkling high.- 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Allah's wonderful Throne ? 

And the Drops of Life — O, what would they be 

In the boundless Deep of Eternity? " 

While thus she mused, her pinions fanned 
The air of that sweet Indian land. 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 



Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral rocks and amber beds ; 
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; 
Whose rivulets are like rich brides. 
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 
Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 

With human blood — the smell of death 
Came reeking from those icy bowers, 
And man, the sacrifice of man. 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers. 

Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 

Thy pagods and thy pillared shades, 

Thy cavern shrines and Idol stones. 

Thy Monarchs and their thousand Thrones: 

'Tis he of Gazna, — fierce in wrath : 

He comes, and India's diadems 
Lie scattered in his ruinous path — 

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems 
Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and loved Sultana ; 

Maidens, within their pure Zenana, 

Priests in the very fane he slaughters. 
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze. 
And, through the war-fields bloody haze 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand 

Alone beside his native river, — 
The red blade broken in his hand. 

And the last arrow in his quiver. 
•'Live ! " said the Conqueror, — "live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear ! " 
Silent that youthful warrior stood, 
Silent he pointed to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood. 
Then sent his last remaining dart. 
For answer, to th' Invader's heart. 

False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The Tyrant liv'd, the Hero fell I — 
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, 

And, when the rush of war was past. 
Swiftly descending on a ray 

Of morning light, she caught the last — 
Last glorious drop his heart had shed. 
Before its free-born spirit fled ! 

"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
"My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 



Though foul are the drops that oft distil 
On the field of warfare, blood like this, 

For Liberty shed, so holy is. 
It would not stain the purest rill, 

"That sparkles among the Bow«rs of Bliss . 
O, if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 
'Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her 
cause ! " 

"Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 
"Sweet is our welcome of the Brave 

Who die thus for their native Land. — 
But see — alas ! — the crystal bar 
Of Eden moves not — holier far 
Than ev'n this drop the boon must be. 
That opes the Gates of Heav'n for thee ! " 

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, 

Now among Afric's lunar Mountains 
Far to the South, the Peri lighted ; 

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains 
Of that Egyptian tide — whose birth 
Is hidden from the sons of earth. 
Deep in those solitary woods. 
Where oft the Genii of the Floods 
Dance round the cradle of their Nile, 
And hail the new-born Giant's smile. 
Thence over Egypt's palmy groves. 

Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings, 
The exil'd Spirit sighing roves ; 
And now hangs listening to the doves 
In warm Rosetta's vale, — now loves 

To watch the moonlight on the wings 
Of the white pelicans that break 
The azure calm of Moeris' Lake. 
'Twas a fair scene — a Land more bright 

Never did mortal eye behold ! 
Who could have thought, that saw this ni.'^ht 

Those valleys and their fruits of gold 
Basking in Heaven's serenest light ; — 
Those groups of lovely date trees bending 
Languidly their leaf-crown 'd heads. 
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending 

Warns them to their silken beds ; — 
Those virgin lilies, all the night 

Bathing their beauties in the lake. 
That they may rise more fresh and bright. 

When their beloved Sun's awake ; — 
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem 
The relics of a splendid dream ; 

Amid whose fairy loneliness 
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard. 



364 



Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting 
Fast from the moon, unsheathj its gleam,) 
Some purple-wing 'd Sultana* sitting 

Upon a column, motionless 
And glittering like an Idol bird ! 

Who would have thought, that there, cv'n 

Amid those scenes so still and fair, [there. 

The Demon of the Plague hath cast 

From his hot wing a deadlier blast. 

More mortal far than ever came 

From the red Desert's sands of flame ! 

So quick, that every living thing 

Of human shape, touch 'd by his wing. 

Like plants, where the Simoom hath pass'd. 

At once falls black and withering 1 

The sun went down on many a brow. 

Which, full of bloom and freshness then. 
Is rankling in the pesthouse now. 

And ne'er will feel that sun again. 
And, O, to see th' unburied heaps 
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps- 
The very vultures turn away, 
.■\nd sicken at so foul a prey 
Only the fierce hyena stalks 
Throughout the city's desolate walks 
At midnight, and his carnage plies: — 

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets 
The glaring of those large blue eyes 

Amid the darkness of the streets! 

" Poor race of men !" said the pitying Spirit, 

" Dearly ye pay for your primal Fall — 
Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit. 

But the trail of the Serpent is over them all 1" 
She wept — the air grew pure and clear 

Around her. as the bright drops ran ; 
For there's a magic in each tear. 

Such kindly Spirits weep for man ! 

Just then beneath some orange trees. 
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 
Were wantoning together, free. 
Like age at play with infancy — 
Beneath that fresh and springing bower, 

Close by the Lake, she heard the moan 
Of one who, at this silent hour. 

Had thither stol'n to die alone. 
One who in life where'er he mov'd. 

Drew after him the hearts of many ; 
Yet now, as though he ne'er were lov'd 

Dies here unseen, unwept by any ! 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



None to watch near him — none to slake 

The fire that in his bosom lies. 
With cv'n a sprinkle from that lake. 

Which shines so cool before his eyes. 
No voice, well known through many a day. 

To speak the last, the parting word. 
Which, when all other sounds decay. 

Is still like distant music heard ; — 
That tender farewell on the shore 
Of this rude world, when all is o'er, 
Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 
Puts off into the unknown Dark. 

Deserted youth ! one thought alone 

Shed joy around his soul in deaths 
That she. whom he for years had known. 
And lov'd, and might have call'd his own. 

Was safe from this foul midnight's breath, — 
Safe in her father's princely halls. 
Where the cool airs from fountain falls, 
Freshly perfum'd by many a brand 
Of the sweet wood from India's land, 
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 

But see — who yonder comes by stealth. 

This melancholy bower to seek. 
Like a young envoy, sent by Health. 

With rosy gifts upon her cheek.' 
'Tis she — far off. through moonlight dim, 

He knew his own betrothed bride. 
She, who would rather die with him. 

Than live to gain the world beside ! 
Her arms are round her lover now. 

His livid cheek to hers she presses. 
And dips, to bind his burning brow. 

In the cool lake her loosen'd tresses. 
Ah! once, how little did he think 
.-Vn hour would come, when he should shrink 
With horror from that dear embrace. 

Those gentle arms, that were to him 
Holy as is the cradling place 

Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
And now he yields — now turns away, 
Shuddering as if the venom lay 
All in those proffer'd lips alone — 
Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
Never until that instant came 
Near his unask'd or without shame. 



■•f) let me only breathe the air. 

The blessed air that's breathed by thee 
And. whether on its wings it bear 

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 



365 



There — drink my tears while yet they fall,— 

Would that my bosom's blood were balm, 
And well thou knowest I'd shed it all 

To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
Nay, turn not from me that dear face — 

Am I not thine, thy own loved bride — 
The one, the chosen one. whose place 

In^life or death is by thy side.' 
Think'st thou that she. whose only light 

In this dim world from thee hath shone. 
Could bear the long, the cheerless night 

That must be hers when thou art gone? 
That I can live, and let thee go. 
Who art my life itself? — No, no — 
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
Out of its heart must perish too ! 
Then turn to me, my own love, turn. 
Before, like thee. I fade and burn ; 
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
The last pure life that lingers there !" 

She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp 
In charnel airs, or cavern damp. 
So quickly do his baleful sighs 
Quench all the light of her sweet eyes. 
One struggle — and his pain is past, — 

Her lover is no longer living! 
One kiss the maiden gives, one last 

Long kiss, which she expires in giving! 
"Sleep," said the Peri, as she stole 
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul. 
As true as e'er warmed woman's breast — 
" Sleep on, — in visions of odor rest. 
In balmier airs than ever yet stirred 
Th' enchanted pile of that lonely bird. 
Who sings at the last his own death lay. 
And in music and perfume dies away!" 
Thus saying, from her lips she spread 

Unearthly breathings through the place. 
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed 

Such lustre o'er each paly face 
That like two lovely saints they seemed, 

Upon the eve of doomsday taken 
From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; 

While that benevolent Peri beamed 
Like their good angel, calmly keeping 

Watch o'er them till their souls should 
waken. 

But morn is blushing in the sky; 

Again the Peri soars above. 
Bearing to Heav'n that precious sigh 

Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 



High throbbed her heart, with hope elate, 

Th' Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
For the bright Spirit at the gate 

Smiled as she gave that offering in; 
And she already heard the trees 
! Of Eden, with their crj'stal bells. 
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 

That from the throne of Alia swells; 
And she can see the starr)' bowls 

That lie around that lucid lake. 
Upon whose banks admitted souls 

Their first sweet draught of glory take! 

But, ah! even Peri's hopes are vain — 

Again the Fates forbade, again 

Th' immortal barrier closed — " Not yet,' 

The angel said, as with regret 

He shut from her that glimpse of glor)', — 

" True was the maiden, and her storj'. 

Written in light o'er Alla's head. 

By seraph eyes shall long be read. 

But, Peri, see — the crystal bar 

Of Eden moves not, — holier far 

Than even this sigh the boon must be 

That opes the gates of Heav'n for thee." 

Now, upon Syria's land of roses 
Softly the light of eve reposes. 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers. 

And whitens with eternal sleet. 
While summer, in a vale of flowers. 

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. 

To one who looked from upper air 

O'er all the enchanted regions there. 

How beauteous must have been the glow. 

The life, the sparkling from below! 

The gardens, shining streams, with ranks 

Of golden melons on their banks. 

More golden where the sunlight falls; 

Gay lizards, glittering on the walb 

Of ruined shrines, busy and bright. 

As they were all alive with light ; 

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 

Of pigeons, settling on the rocks. 

With their rich restless wings that gleam 

Variously in the crimson beam 

Of the warm West, as if inlaid 

With brilliants from the mine, or made 

Of tearless rainbows, such as span 

The unclouded skies of Peristan. 



366 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And then the mingling sounds that come, 
Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum 
Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

banqueting thro' the flowerj' vales ; 
And Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. 

And woods so full of nightingales. 

But naught can charm the luckless Peri • 
Her soul is sad, her wings are weary — 
Joyless she sees the sun look down 
On that great Temple once his own. 
Where lonely columns stand sublime. 

Flinging their shadows from on high, 
Like dials, which the wizard. Time, 

Had raised to count his ages by ! 

Yet haply there may lie concealed 

Beneath those Chambers of the Sun, 
Some amulet of gems, annealed 
In upper fires, some tablet sealed 
With the great seal of Solomon, 
Which, spelled by her illumined eyes, 
May teach her where, beneath the moon. 
In earth or ocean, lies the boon, 
The charm, that can restore so soon 
An erring Spirit to the skies. 

Cheered by this hope, she bends her thither ■ 

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven, 

Nor have the golden bowers of Even 
In the rich West begun to wither; — 
When, o'er the vale of Balbec winging 

Slowly, she sees a child at play. 
Among the rosy wild flowers singing. 

As rosy and as wild as they ; 
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes. 
The beautiful blue damsel-flies 
That fluttered round the jasmine stems. 
Like winged flowers or flying gems : — 
And, near the boy, who. tired with play. 
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay. 
She saw a wearied man dismount 

From his hot steed, and on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount 

Impatient fling him down to drink ; 
Then swift his haggard brow he turned 

To the fair child, who fearless sat. 
Though never yet hath daylight burned 

Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire. 
Like thunder clouds of gloom and fire. 
In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed : 



The ruined maid— the shrine profaned — 
Oaths broken — and the threshold stained 
With blood of guests I — there written all. 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing Angel's pen. 
Ere Mercy weeps them out again. 

Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
(As if the balmy evening time 
Softened his spirit) looked and lay. 
Watching the" rosy infant's play ; — 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze 
As torches, that have burnt all night 
Through some impure and godless rite. 

Encounter morning's glorious rays. 

But, hark ! the vesper call to prayer 

As slow the orb of daylight sets 
Is rising sweetly on the air. 

From Syria's thousand minarets! 
The boy has started from the bed 
Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
And down upon the fragrant sod 

Kneels, with his forehead to the south. 
Lisping th' eternal name of God 

From Purity's own cherub mouth. 
And looking, while his hands and eyes 
Are lifted to the glowing skies. 
Like a stray babe of Paradise. 
Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
And seeking for its home again. 
O. 'twas a sight— that Heav'n— that child — 
A scene, which might have well beguil'd 
Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh 
For glories lost and peace gone by ! 

And how felt he, the wretched Man 
I Reclining there — while memory ran 
I O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
I Flew o'er the dark flood of his life. 
Nor found one sunny resting-place. 
Nor brought him back one branch of grace. 
" There -aHis a time." he said, in mild. 
Heart-humbled tones — " thou blessed child ! 
When, young and haply pure as thou, 
I look'd and pray'd like thee — but now — ' 
He hung his head — each nobler aim. 

And hope, and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 
Fresh o'er him. and he wept— he wept.' 
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence I 
In whose benign, redeeming flow 



THE SPIRIT BRIDAL. 



367 



Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 

" There's a drop," said the Peri, "that down 

from the moon 
Falls through the withering airs of June 
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power. 
So balmy a virtue, that ev'n in the hour 
That drop descends, contagion dies, 
And health reanimates earth and skies ! — 
O, is it not thus, thou man of sin. 

The precious tears of repentance fall.' 
Though foul thy fiery plagues within. 

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them all!" 

And now — behold him kneeling there 

By the child's side, in humble prayer. 

While the same sunbeam shines upon 

The guilty and the guiltless one, 

And hymns»of joy proclaim through Heaven 

The triumph of a soul Forgiven ! 

'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
There fell a light more lovely far 
Than ever came from sun or star, 
Upon the tear that, warm and meek, 
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek. 
To mortal eye this light might seem 
A northern flash or meteor beam 
But well th' enraptur'd Peri knew 
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
Her harbinger of glory near ! 



" Joy, joy forever ! my task is done. 

The Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won ! 

O, am I not happy .' I am, I am — 

To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad 
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam, 

And the fragrant bowers of Amberabad ! 
Farewell, ye odors of Earth, that die 
Passing away like a lover's sigh ; — 
My feast is now of the Tooba Tree, 
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity. 
Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 

In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief ;^ 
O. what are the brightest that ev'r have blown 
To the lote tree springing by Alla's throne. 

Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf? — 
Joy, joy forever ! — my task is done ! — 
The gates are passed, and Heav'n is won ! 



THE SPIRIT BRIDAL. 



Go — gather the diamonds that float through 
the waves. 
All sparkling with light through the long 
summer's day, [caves 

And let ocean give up from her hiddenmost 
Every gem she holds purest and brightest of 
ray. 
To declc with their sheen 
The fair brow of our queen 
For the bridal of Spirit and Mortal — away ! 

And twine with the garland the beam of the 

As she tremblingly kisses the water at even, 
Impearling the fair, fragrant flowers of June 
With her soft light that flows like a river, 
thro' heaven ; 
And blend with the wreath 
Honor, Passion and Faith, 
To mortal the purest and holiest given. 

And with the beam mingle the hues that the 
bow 
From its watery prison m harmony flings. 
Emblazoned with colors as radiant as though 
They had flashed from a wave of the Sera- 
phim's wings ; 
Let every ray be 

As bright as ye see [springs. 

The Sun, when at morn from the Ocean he 

Then weave her a robe from a wreath of the 
foam [shore. 

That the storm-spirit dashes in sport on the 
And braid it with pearls from the mermaid's 
green home. 
That lies deep in the wave, 'neath its sap- 
phire floor ; — 
And the bridal robe twine 
With that rich golden line [ore. 

That the summer sun flings on the water, like 

Take for her chariot the amber ye find 

All fresh from the night-mourning sea-bird 
that weeps. [wind 

And give her for steeds the fleet wings of the 
As over the ocean in winter he sweeps, — 
Haste, Spirits — away. 
From the regions of Day 
To depths where the dolphin in revelry leaps. 
Edward Maturin. 



THOMAS MOORE. [ From " T/w Enchanted Ring." 



368 



I'OEMS OF THE IMAGJNATJO.W 



THE FATE OF THE FAIRY SWAN. 

"When shall the ftwan her death-note sioging. 

hlecp with wings in darkness furled ? 
When shall heaven its sweet bell ringing. 
Call my spirit from this stormy world ? * 

— SoHgo/ FiOHHunLt. 

Up and down the crystal river 

Sailed the fair enchanted Swan : 
In the east a rose-flush quivered. 
In the west the stars grew wan ; 
On the bank in costume rude, 
Knelt a mighty multitude. 

While the dew in gentle showers 

Itethed the bishops cape and crook : 

Gemmed the altar, crowned with flowers. 

Flashed on chalice, bell and book. — 

Vested priest, upon the g^ass. 

Offered up the first great Mass. 

First great Mass on Erins altars, 

Sunburst brighter than the dawn ! 
Closer to the reeds and rushes. 
Swam the fair enchanted Swan : 
Throbbing fast and droopino; low. 
Feathered breast, and wings of snow. 

With her wierd bright eyes she watched them. 

That mysterious multitude. — 

Prostrate on the ground, and sobbing. 

.\s they beat their breasts subdued ; 

Ever)' lip, (unshorn or bare) — 

Trembling with ecstatic prayer 

" Sanctus ! Sanctus.' Satutus!" murmured 

At the shrine the bending priest. — 
All was still — the ver)- breathing 
Of that mighty gathering ceased, — 
As, upon the hush there fell 
Silver)' tinkling of a bell ! 

Sacred sound, so long awaited ! 

Blesstid chiming, long deferred ! — 
In the mist among the rushes 

Something white and trembling stirred. 
As the Bird in rapture strong 
Sang her last delicious song: 

"Farewell. Erin, 'mid the waters. 

Shining, like an em'rald green, — 
Ne'er again shall Fionnuala 
On your sparkling lakes be seen ; 
After ages of unrest. 
Sweet shall be her slumbers blest. 



" Christ hath triumphed I Christ hath riven 

From my soul its shackles sore : 
Farewell, Erin, lov'd of heaven ! 
Never shall I see thee more. 
— Chime, O chime, thou holy bell ! 
Lir's lone daughter breathes — farewell !' 

Ringing sweetly, ringing softly, — 

Lo I a white ethereal shape. 
With the last clear note of triumph 
Winged to heav'n its glad escape. 

Farewell, lake ! Farewell, bright river ! 
Fionnuala is free forever! 

El.KANOR C. DONNELLY. 



THE MISTLETOE. 
\ Prophet sat at the Temple gate. 

And he spake the passers by, 
In thrilling tone, with words of weight. 

And fire in his rolling eye : — 
■■ Pause thee, believing Jew, 

Nor move one step beyond. 
Until thy heart hath pondered 
The mystery of this wand :" 
And a rod from his robe he drew. 
'Twas a withered bough. 
Torn long ago 
From the branch on which it grew, 
But the branch long torn 
Showed a bud new born. 
That had blossomed there anew. 
That wand was " Jesse's Rod," 
And the bud was the birth of God. 

A Priest of Eg>'pt sat meanwhile 

Beneath a lofty palm, 
And gazing on his native Nile 

As in a mirror calm. 
He saw a lowly Lotus plant. 

Pale orphan of the flood. 
And long did the aged hierophant 

Gaze on that beauteous bud ; 
For well he thought as he saw it float 

O'er the waste of waters wild. 
Of the symbol told of the cradle boat 

Of the wondrous Hebrew child. 

Nor was that lowly Lotus dumb 

Of a mightier infant yet to come, 

If mystic skiff 

And hieroglyph 

Speak aught in Luxor's catacomb. 



THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 



369 



A Greek sat on Colonni's cape, 

In his lofty thoughts alone, 
And a volume lay in Plato's lap. 

For he was that lonely one ; 
And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page. 

His forehead radiant grew. 
For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to come 

The vision blest his view 
He broached that theme in the Academe 

In the teachful olive grove, 
And a chosen few that secret knew 

In the Porch's dim alcove. 

A Sybil sat in Cumae's cave, 

In the hour of infant Rome, 
And vigil kept and warning gave 

Of the Holy One to come ; 
'Twas she who had culled the hallowed branch, 

And sat at the silent helm, 
When .-Eneas, sire of Rome, would launch 

His bark over Hades' realm. 
And now she poured her vestal soul 
Through many a bright illumined scroll 
By priest and sage 
Of an after age 
Conned in the lofty Capitol. 

A Druid stood in the dark oak-wood 

Of a distant Northern land. 
And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold 

In the grasp of his withered hand ; 
And he slowly moved around the girth 

Of an aged oak to see 
If an orphan plant of wondrous birth 

Had clung to the old oak tree ; 
And anon he knelt and from his belt 

Unloosed his golden blade. 
Then rose and culled the Mistletoe 

Under the greenwood shade 

O blessed bough, meet emblem thou 

Of all dark Egypt knew. 
Of all foretold to the wise of old. 

To Roman, Greek and Jew. 
And long, God grant, time-honored plant, 

May we behold thee hung 
In cottage small or in baron's hall. 

Banner and shield among. 
Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 

Aloft in thy place of pride, 
Still usher forth in the land of the North 

The solemn Christmas Tide. 



FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 



A Xoel ascribed to Abclard. 



THE TREASURE OF ABRAM. 
I. 
In the old Rabbinical stories. 

So old they might well be true — 
The sacred tales of the Talmud. 

That David and Solomon knew — 
There is one of the Father Abram, 

The greatest of Heber's race. 
The mustard seed of Judea 

That filled the holy place. 
'Tis said that the fiery heaven 

His eye was first to read. 
Till the planets were gods no longer. 

But helps for the human need ; 
He taught his simple people 

The scope of eternal law. 
That swayed at once the fleecy cloud 

And the circling suns they saw. 
But the rude Chaldean peasants 

Uprose against the seer. 
And drave him forth — else never came 

This Talmud legend here. 

With Sarah his wife, and his ser\ants. 

Whom he ruled with potent hand. 
The Patriarch planted his vineyards 

In the Canaanitish land ; 
With his wife — the sterile, but lovely, 

The fame of whose beauty grew 
Till there was no land in Asia 

But tales of the treasure knew. 
In his lore the sage lived — learning 

High thought from the starlit skies ; 
But heedful, too, of the light at home. 

And the danger of wistful eyes ; 
Till the famine fell on his corn-fields. 

And sent him forth again, 
To seek for a home in Egypt, — 

The land of the amorous men. 



II. 
Long and rich is the caravan that halts at 

Egypt's gate, 
While duty full the stranger pays on lowing 

herd and freight. 
Full keen the scrutiny of those who note the 

heavy dues ■ 
From weanling foal to cumbrous wain, no 

chance of gain they lose. 
But fair the search, — no wealth concealed ; 

while rich the gifts they take 
From Abram's hand, till care has ceased, and 

formal quest they make. 



370 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



They pass the droves and laden teams, the 

weighted slaves are past. 
And Abram doubles still the gifts ; one wain — 

his own — is last- 
It goes unsearched I Wise Abram smiles, 
though dearly stemmed the guest ; 
But haps will come from causes slight. 
And hidden things upspring to light : 
A breeze flings wide the canvas fold, and deep 
within the wain, behold I 

A brass-bound, massive chest ! 

•' Press on !" shouts Abram. " Hold !" they 

cry ; " what treasure hide ye here .'" 
The word is stern — the answer brief : " Treas- i 

ure ! 'tis household gear ; 
Plain linen cloth and flaxen thread." The 

scribes deceived are wroth ; 
" Then weigh the chest — its price shall be the 

dues on linen cloth I" 

The face of Abram seemed to grieve, though 

joy was in his breast, 
As carefully his ser\'ants took and weighed 

the mighty chest. 
But one hath watched the secret smile; he 

cries — " This stranger old 
Hath used deceit: no cloth is here— this 

chest is filled with gold !" 
" Nay, nay," wise Abram says, and smiles, 

though now he hides dismay ; 
" But time is gold : let pass the chest — on 

gold the dues I pay !" 
But he who read the subtle smile detects the 

secret fear : 
" Detain the chest ! nor cloth nor gold, but 

precious silk is here I" 

Grave Father Abram stands like one who 

knoweth well the sword 
When tyros baffle thrust and guard ; slow 

comes the heedful word : 
" I seek no lawless gain — behold ! my trains 

are on their way. 
Else would these bands my servants break, 

and show the simple goods I take. 
That silk ye call ; but, for time's sake, on silk 

the dues I pay!" 

" He pays too much I" the watcher cries; " this 
man is full of guile ; I 

From cloth to gold and gold to silk, to save a I 
paltry mile ! 



Thi^graybcard pay full silken dues on cloth 

for slave-bred girls ! 
Some prize is here — he shall not pass until he 

pay for pearls I" 

Stern Abram turned a lurid eye, as he the 

man would slay : 
.An instant, rose the self-command ; but thin 

the lip and quick the hand. 
.As one who makes a last demand ; " On 

pearls the dues I pay! " 

•'He cannot pass!" the watcher screamed, 

as to the chest he clung; 
" He shall not pass! Some priceless thing he 

hideth here. Quick, workmen bring! 
I seize this treasure for the King!" 
Old Abram stood aghast ; it seemed the knell 

of doom had rung I 

III. 

Red-eyed with greed and wonder. 

The crowd excited stand ; 
The blows are rained like thunder 

On brazen bolt and band ; 
They burst the massive hinges. 

They raise the ponderous lid, 
.And lo ! the peerless treasure 

That Father Abram hid : 

In pearls and silks and jewels rare. 
Fit for a Pharaoh's strife ; 

In flashing eyes and golden hair 
Sat .Abram's lovelv wife ' 



J()H> 



(JVLK O REILLV. 



THE GODS OF HELLAS. 
The gods are all forgotten long ago — 
The merry gods to whom the Grecian prayed 
In those soft words so honey-sweet to flow 
Like some rare vintage that for long has stay- 
Deep hidden in some happy earthen jar, ^ed 
Whose ruddy grapes were ripely grown be- 
neath some fortunate star. 

They have gone hence and left us, floated 
Over the pallid ocean of the sky, [out 

Into those purpling clouds that cling about 
The setting splendor of the sun, and lie 
L'pon the edge of plain or sea, unfurled 
To the dim shapes of stately gods who ruled 
an elder world. 



THE GODS OF HELLAS. 



371 



But ye who pity these poor deities [earth, 
Whose temples long have crumbled to the 
Who from their groves and happy summer 

seas 
Have fled, and left no echo of their mirth 
Pour a libation out to every one 
Of the immortal gods who long ago are dead 

and gone. 

Although for us the gods are never dead — 
For us who, in the yellowing wastes of dawn 
Still see Aurora hasten from her bed — 
For us who hear on every upland lawn 
The pipings of God Pan upon the breeze. 
And see the merry Satyrs chase the Dryads 
through the trees. 

And surely when the summer clothes the wold 
With gaudy grasses and a world of flowers. 
We may believe that Saturn's age of gold 
Has come again, and the delightful hours 
May pass like comely maidens on their way 
About the flaming chariot of the glorious god 
of day. 

In such an hour upon some woodland hill 
Lapped in a lazy leisure we may lie. 
And dream that Grecian gods inhabit still 
The coloured temples of the shifting sky. 
Still hearken with some pity to our sighs. 
And watch our mortal grief and joy with 
kindly deathless eyes. 

They are not dead, the joyous gods of Greece. 
A Pan endures where any green thing grows ; 
Within their hills the Oreads sleep in peace ; 
The Naiads float where any river flows ; 
The Dryads linger in each haunted wood ; 
And still Poseidon and the Nereids rule the 
writhing flood ; 

And in the evening clouds about the sky 
You may behold the shapes of ancient gods. 
Can you not see great Ares sweeping by .' 
And in yon storm-rack Z-us the saviour nods 
His curls ambrosial ; in that vapour, see. 
The fiery steeds of Dis bear off Persephone ! 

Hail, heavenly Hera, floating down the wind. 
Borne by thy gaudy birds, the Argus-eyed ! 
Now that the gods are banished, do you find 
That Zeus remains more faithful by thy side 
Than when of old his uncontrolled desire 
On half the heroes of the world bestowed a 
heavenly sire.' 



Great Pan, the laughing fountains and the 
Of ancient rivers are thy altars still ; [edges 
And where the wind makes sport among the 
Thy pleasant pipings of lost Syrinx fill [sedges 
The hollow groves and mossy mountain 
ledges : [hedges. 

And so we find old Arcady between our leafy 

God of the gardens, lord of Lampsacus, 
Grinning with half shut eyes against the sun 
Altho' the world has laughed and left you 
With desplate altars where sad ivies run, [thus 
Yet, while the Queen of Love finds worship- 
pers, 
Be well assured your horde of slaves shall aye 
out-number hers. 

Wing-footed Hermes, cunning King of thieves. 
Whose duty 'twas to herald down to hell 
The ghosts more thick than winter-scattered 

leaves. 
Say, hast thou led the shapes of gods as well .' 
Hast thou, thyself a shade, been forced to float 
Across the muddy waves of Styx in Charon's 

creaking boat .' 

Archer Apollo, young in the world's age, 
Come with the sunshine in your face and hair ! 
You served Admetus once ; ah ! with what wage 
Will ye serve us, whose summer fields are fair, 
And fair our meadows and our wood-clad hills. 
And fair our babbling rivers as the old Cas- 
talian rills.' 

O golden lord of sunlight, goodliest 
Of all thy heavenly fellows, where are they. 
Calliope, Euterpe, and the rest 
Of thy nine maidens .' Have they lost their way 
To old Parnassus, where the trembling trees 
Give to the winds the echo of your ancient 
melodies.' 

Where is thy sister Artemis to-day. 
Lyric Apollo.' Do her white feet run 
Down the green track to bring the stag to bay 
In some unknown-of forest, where the sun 
Shines on the shapes of deathless deities. 
That wander in eternal youth among eternal 
trees .' 

Surely of moonlit nights the Parthenon 
Beholds Athene, and the broad white brows 
Of Pallas bent in godlike grief upon 
Her much loved Piraeus, where the prows 
Of all the nations cluster as of old. 
When she was throned in solemn pride of 
ivorj' and gold. 



372 



POEMS OF THE IMAOISATIOX. 



Surely about that ghostly hour when dawn 
Creeps through the sky and stars on Sulamis. 
The ghosu come thick from each Elysian lawn 
And from the hollow flowerless fields of Dis, 
And wend their way from the still town in 

pairs 
To greet their goddess at the head of holy 

temple stairs. 

Those comely youths with lissom limbs that 
Around thy storied frieze, O. Virginal ! [ride 
Those glorious girls for whom their lovers 

sighed 
What time they went upon thy festival. 

! Bearing thy yellow garments softly spun [run. 

I In token that another year of jocund life was 

I Once more the noisy gaily colored crowd 
People thy holy courts with many a gift ; 
Once more the choral voices, rising loud 
In clear triumphant tuneful union, lift 
Thy holy praises to the heedless sky. 
O goddess, these are dead and gone who 
thought not thou could'st die I 

Down on the hill the long-deserted stage [see 
Is thronged with changing shadows ; sure I 
The tortured Titan brave Olympian rage. 
And CEdipus bewail his misery 
By white Colonos. from whose olive trees 
Thick haunting nightingales make moan to 
everj' wandering breeze. 

Medea, with love's rum in her heart, 
I Calls to her young with cruel Colchian breath ; 
The great good-humoured giant takes the part 
Of the true woman and o'ermasters death ; 
And lo, from seat to seat runs ghostly mirth, 
While Socrates in basket swings between the 
heaven and earth ! 

O Dionysius, gladdest-hearted god. 
Do not the purple vineyards hold you still } 
Do you not rule us with your tendrilled rod. 
And the soft juices that defeat the will. 
From any heed of cruel hours that creep 
Away in fancies brighter than the dreams of 
poppied sleep .•' 

For every man to whom the subtle fire 
Gives an unreal lordship of the earth. 
And feigned accordance of his heart's desire — 
The love of woman or what nobler worth 
His heart most hungers after — each of these 
Adds one more loyal worshipper to all your 
votaries. 



No more the dappled leopards draw thy car 
Adown the noisy flower-sown street : no more 
Some baby Bacchus on a giant jar, 

, By jolly vine-clad Satyrs lifted o'er 
The heads of all the laughing people, wields 

' His little thyrsus in the praise of him the 
vineyard yields. 

1 Perchance on summer evcningp calm and still, 
1 You sit with Ariadne by your side 
On the soft slope of some Arcadian hill. 

Singing and drinking of the purple tide. 
Crushed beneath sunburnt feet with mcrr\- 
i noise 

Of laughter and of rustic song from brown- 
skinned girls and bojrs. 

.IfSTIN H. M'CARIIIN. 
/•>..«/ •• Thf GoJs ../ llelUis." 



TO IMAGINATION. 

j When wean' with the long day's care, 

And earthly change from pain to pain. 
And lost, and ready to despair. 

Thy kind voice calls me back again: 
Oh, my true friend. I am not lone 
While thou canst speak with such atone ' 

So hopeless is the world without. 

The world within I doubly prize ; 
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt, 

And cold suspicion never rise ; — 
Where thou, and I, and Liberty 
Have undisputed sovereignty. 

What matters it that, all around, 
i Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, 
If but within our bosom's bound 

We hold a bright, unclouded sky. 
Warmed with ten thousand mingled rays 
Ot suns that see no winter days ? 

Reason, indeed, may oft complain 

For Nature's sad reality. 
And tell the sutifering heart how vain 

Its cherished dreams must always be ; 
And Truth may nidely trample down 
The flowers of Fancy, newly blown : 

But thou art ever there, to bring 
j The hovering visions back, and breathe 
! New glories o'er the blighted spring, 
I And call a lovelier life and death; 



THE PLAIN OF ASPHODEL. 



nz 



And whisper, with a voice divine, 
Of real worlds as bright as thine. 

I trust not to thy phantom bliss. 
Yet still, in evening's quiet hour. 

With never-failing thankfulness 
I welcome thee. Benignant Power ; 

Sure solacer of human cares. 

And sweeter hope, when hope despairs ! 

EMILY liRONTE. 



THE PLAIN OF ASPHODEL, 

'• Xaked and dry on the plain of Asphodel."— //ow/.v 

I. 

Looking down the slopes of splendor, 

Where the garden spreads in glorj'. 

Where the forms, all bright and tender, 

Seem to speak a gentler storj' 
Than the written page can show us 
Or than memory can bestow us — 
If your mind could be uplifted 
With a sudden manumission. 
Could be mercifully gifted 

With a special-sent permission 
Of delight in this bright vision, — ■ 
You might think that life was painless. 
You might think that man was stainless. 
You might think that earth was paradise 

Because it bloomed so well ; 
You'd not think such star-like creatures. 
So unstamped with earthly features. 
Could be found to glow and flourish 

On the plain of Asphodel — 

Could be found in such bright beauty 

On this plain of Asphodel. 



Ah ! those flow'rets are no other 

Than the scarce and stinted wrapping 

Of our earth, the sheltering mother. 
Of the dead, in gala trapping : — 

All these gardens in their glory 

Bloom on lethal territory : 

This dead clay, so gaily wreathed, 
Is all human, and its brightness 

Is but grief, for once it breathed ; 
And our living spirit's lightness 
Starts and soars with scorn's uprightness :• 

Must our flesh be decked, polluted 

As the sod — at least transmuted ? 

Must this panoramic grandeur 

Which the soul can love so well. 



Rightly rendered, show us plainly 
That our eyes admire it vainly? — 
For this place of our devotion 

Is the plain of Asphodel — 
All this lovely earthly garden 

Is the plain of Asphodel. 



'Tis a vast humiliation. 

But let truth be ever gaining — 
What is flesh, that its prostration 

Should induce this keen complaining? 
Flesh is far the poorest sample 
Of this earth we proudly trample ; 
Earth is strengthful ; flesh is forceless ; 

Earth is fruitful ; flesh is failing ; 
Earth is guileless; flesh remorseless; 

Earth is blooming; flesh is ailing. 

And its works are unavailing: — 
On the day that earth receives it, 
All its quickening vigor leaves it ; 
Is it then a guest too noble 

In this new abode to dwell ? 
Harassed, shattered, bloated, blighted 
For its passion-gusts requited. 
Does it lend too high an honor 
To the plain of Asphodel ? 
Is our flesh too fine a treasure 
For the plain of Asphodel? 

IV. 
No ; but yet there's consolation : 

Truth may scare with sudden flashes ; 
But it lends no degradation 

To ourselves to see our ashes. — 
When our eyes are skilled in reading 
By its light, there's joy succeeding ; 
If this soil of earth is vested 

With a dazzling, fragrant presence. 
It is mercy's hand that drest it ; — 

Are not human hearts its essence ? 

Glorious thought that lifts, not lessens ! 
Howsoever foul they ended, 
When the breath of heav'n descended 
They have reappeared in lustre 

Which we feel but cannot tell : 
Reappeared, those hearts of ours, 
Glorious, stainless, sinless flowers ! 
Lovely, darling, heav'nly flowers, 

On this plain of Asphodel ! 

Aye. in many a flow'r immortal 

On this plain of Asphodel. 

FRANCIS o'rvan. 



374 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATIOS. 



FIRST APPEARANCE OF HELEN. i 

' - " - '■-, --he (Helen) is transferred, accordinK 

■ikjes, to Deiphobus. The only pa>- 
xliiced in company with her nrw \\\\%- ' 
' ihe hncs which I am about to tranft- 



From the boy his sire departed, 
And to Ilion's coast he came 

When to valiant war yc started 
All for me — a thing of shame." 



From her perfumed chamber wending 

Did the high-born Helen go; 
Artemis she seemed descending. 

I^dy of the golden bow ; 
Then Adrasta, bent on duty. 

Placed for her the regal chair : 
Carpet for tlie feet of beauty 

Spread Alcippe soft and fair. 



.And Atrides spake, replying, 

" Lady, so 1 think as thou. 
Such the glance from eyeballs flying. 

Such his hands, his feet, his brow ; 
Such the locks his forehead gracing; 

And I marked now. as I told 
Of Odysseus' deeds retracing, 

Down his cheeks the tear-drop rolled. 



Phylo came the basket holding. 

Present of Alcandra's hand; 
Fashioned was its silver)- moulding 

In old Egj'pt's wealthy land ; 
She, in famous Thebe living. 

Was of Polybus the spouse. 
He with soul of generous giving 

Shared the wealth that stored his house. 



• While he wiped the current straying 

With his robe of purple hue." 
Nestor's son then answered, saying — 

•• What thou speakest. King, is true. 
He who at thy board is sitting 

Is of wise Odysseus sprung ; 
Modest thoughts, his age befitting. 

Hitherto have stilled his tongue. 



Ten gold talents from his cotTer, 

Lavers twain of silver brought, 
With two tripods at his offer. 

Had he to Atrides brought ; 
While his lady came bestowing 

Gifts to Helen rich of price. 
Gave a distaff, golden, glowing. 

Gave this work of rare device 

Shaped was it in fashion rounded, 

AH of silver but the brim. 
Where by skillful hand 'twas bounded 

With a golden guarded rim. 
Now to Helen Phylo bore it, 

Of its well-spun labor full. 
And the distaff laid she o'er it. 

Wrapt in violet-tinted wool. j 

Throned then and thus attended, 

Helena the King addressed : [ 

" Menelaus, Jove-descended, j 

Know'st thou who is here thy guest.' 
Shall I tell thee, as 1 ponder, 

What I think, or false or true 
Gazing now with eyes of wonder 

On the stranger whom I view .> 



" To address thee could he venture. 

While thy winning accents flowed. 
In our ravished ears to enter. 

As if uttered by a god ! 
At Gerenian Nestor's sending 

Comes beneath my guidance he. 
In the hope thy well intending 

To his guest of help may be. 

" Many a son feels sorrow try him 

While his sire is far away. 
And no faithful comrades by him. 

In his danger prop or stay. 
So, my friend, now vainly sighing. 

O'er his father absent long. 
Finds no hand on which relying. 

He may meet attempted wrong." 

Kindly Menelaus spake him. 

Praised his sire in grateful strain. 
Told his whilome hope lo take him 

.■Xs a partner in his reign ; 
.AH were softened at his telling 

Of the days now jjast and gone ; 
Wept Telemachus. wept Helen, 

Fell the tears from Nestor's son. 



'■ Shape of male or female creature, 
Like to bold Odysseus' son ; 

Young Telemachus in feature. 
As this youth I have seen none. 



Gushing came they for his brother. 
Slain by Dawn-born Memnon's sword; 

But his grief he strove to smother. 
As unfit for festal board. 



THE SATYR. 



Ceased the tears for wo and slaughter, 

And again began the feast ; 
Bore Asphalion round the water, 

Tendered to each noble guest. 

Then to banish gloomy thinking, 

Helen on gay fancy bent, 
In the wine her friends were drinking 

Flung a famed medicament : 
Grief-dispelling, wrath-restraining. 

Sweet oblivion of all wo ; 
He the bowl thus tempered drainmg 

Never felt a tear to flow. 

Not if she whose bosom bore him 

Or his sire in death were laid ; 
Were his brother slain before him. 

Or his son with gory blade. 
In such drugs was Helen knowing; 

Egypt had supplied her skill, 
Where those potent herbs are growing. 

Some for good and some for ill. 

wiLLiA.M m.\gin: 
From the "(Wvjjv " of Il.'nuy. 



THE SATYR. 
Was he aweary of dancing in the woods 
To Pan's wild fluting, when he drooped his 

head 
Thus o'er his bosom, with his limbs outspread 
Amid the pines and rocky solitudes. 
And fell a dozing so deliciously.' 
Did some fantastic daemon in the wine 
Tangle his brain in such a sleepy twine, [glee. 
And drench him with that quaint and drowsy 
Or drifted he to sleep with idle sails, 
Charmed with witch lullabies of luscious 

nightingales? 
Blithe creature in whose being meet and 

mingle [things 

Man's motions with the life of dumb dull 
Of field and thicket, and the spirit's wings 
Half-pledged begin to pulsate and to tingle, 
With faint forefeelings of potential flights ; 
Dream of Sin's soilure makes him not afraid, 
No curb of Conscience on his heart is laid 
To check his quickening senses' soft delights ; 
He roams the woods in measureless content, 
Quaffing earth's mystic boons in pleased 

bewilderment. 

All rich and gummy odors soothe his sense ; 

All flavors of ripe berries in the brake. 

Or fruits that can the thirst of summer slake ; 



All sounds of winds that come he knows not 
I whence. 

Whispering amid the tree-tops and the reeds, 
j With bleat of sheep and low of uddered cows 
I All glints of sunshine on the glossy boughs 

And little leaflets bright with dewy beads ; 

The hornless kids that butt him, and the 
j lambs [clumsy palms. 

That push against his knees and lick his 

But ah ! the vines, the vines in autumn's glow, 
' With bloomy bunches trailing from the stem. 
What wooing witchery abides in them [low 
That he should love to bask their boughs be- 
Like full-fed tortoise dozing in his shell. 
While o'er his breast and neck and visage 
brown [ping down, 

Plump grapes and golden leaves come drop- 
.^nd all the air exhales a fruity smell, 
And every tendril tickling brows and nose 
Is as a touch of love to lull him to repose.' 

The trickling brook was dainty to his lip. 
But sure 'twas Bacchus' self, on frolic bent, 
That by the fount his thirsty mates frequent 
Laid once a beaker purple to the tip 
With honeyed vintage tempting him to taste. 
Gods ! how he eyed the bright mysterious 

draught. 
Then took it timidly, and sipped, and laughed. 
Then drained it to the lees in eager haste. 
Then laughed as if his joy could never fail. 
And like a dancing rivulet skipped adown the 

dale! 

He nibbles the brown nuts with squirrel-mirth. 
And gambols kid-like thro' the rocky glades ; 
He dances in the flickering olive-shades 
To magic melodies of air and earth 
That seize him with a reinless ecstacy. 
And whirl him leaping in fantastic round 
With jerking arms and feet that fly the ground ; 
While Pan, half-hid in cave or hollow tree. 
Pursues him, while he pipes, with twinkling 
eyes, [flies. 

And holds his shaggy side for laughter as he 

In sooth he seems the sport of all the gods ; 
Gay Eros hath bewildered his poor heart, 
And set him sighing for the nymphs that dart 
With twinkling feet across the woodland sods; 
For them he capers, smiles and blithely sings ; 
They flatter him with mischief in each eye ; 
He fingers their smootti necks, and off they 
hie. 



POEMS OF THE IMAGI.\ATIO.\ 



And round the rocks their mirthful laughter 

rings; 
Well pleased he laughs with them that laugh 

at him. [dim. 

And they forbear to chide a sense so vague and 

Stop, and behold him as he dozes there. 
His listless limbs extended on the rock. 
Close by his side a goat from the black flock 
Munches the wy fallen from his hair; 
The hornet whizzes harmless by; a bird 
With saflron breast beside an olive's root 
Drops down to peck the berries at his foot . 
Because these two long hours he hath not 

stirred. 
The nightingale above him trills at ease, 
The lizard stares and pouts, then climbs his 

gnarled knees. 

He dreams of noonday slumber as he sleeps, 
Of drowsy whispers in the waving tree 
And far-ofi murmurs of the mystic sea. 
And some soft eye that thro' the thicket peeps. 
And glossy purring things that brush his palm. 
And troops of laughing naiads at the spring 
His face affrights amid their gambolling 
And white-necked drvads with their breath of 

balm. 
And then of Bacchus and his purple wiles. 
And, happier than a child, amid his sleep he 

smiles. 

GEOKCE FRANCIS ARMSTRONG. 
From "./ CarhmJ from (7r,;Yi:" 



CitSAR AND CATO. 

A Dial<^ue in tlu- Elysian Fields. 

Across the narrowing stream, as Cato's eye 
Marked the pale train, nor marked without a 

sigh. 
The shade of Caesar rushing on his view. 
Swift to the utmost verge of Lethe flew. 
And fain had plunged beneath the parting 

But fate forbad his daring limbs to lave, 
Or with a tyrant's unrepented crimes 
Taint the pure ether of Elysian climes. 

"Tis Cato's self — his form, his godlike mien, 
As Mars determined and as Jove serene! " 



Exclaimed the astonished ghost: — " that robe 

he wears. 
With garland of immortal oak. declares 
The stubborn patriot who disdained to live 
On any terms that Ca»ar's [xiwcr could 

give." 
With looks of mild benignity, like those 
Which Mercy, checked by stricter justice. 

shows 
When bending o'er some wretch whose 

impious deeds 
Oppose the grace for which he N-ainly pleads. 
Great Cato turned, and to the guilty shade 
Thus the soft tribute of compassion paid :— 

■• Ill-fated ghost ! since death's avenging spear 

Hath stopt thy vices in their mad career ; 

Since Rome from thee no future ills can know. 

Cato's no longer fallen Cssar's foe. 

But would those waves, whose drowsy cur- 
rents glide 

With lingering pace our spirits to divide. 

Back roll their stream, my former wrongs 
effaced. 

I'd soothe thy sorrow in my arms embraced ; 

For well my soul each tender feeling knows 

Which to a Roman's grief a Roman owes." 

'• Proud shade !" exclaimed the indignant 

ghost again, 
•• Take back the insulting pity I disdain ; 
Fall'n tho' I am by murder's treacherous 

steel. 
Think not my god-like soul debased I feel. 
Caesar is Caesar, though from empire hurled. 
Great as when throned the master of the 

world I 
O glorious name I my glowing spirit towers 
When memory brings again those golden 

hours. 
Which saw me like the undaunted eagle soar 
To heights of radiant fame untracked before : 
Saw me o'er empires stretch my sceptred 

hand. 
.■\nd round my throne dependent monarchs 

stand. 

1 ■' Nor canst thou, Cato. rigid as thou art. 
If Candor guide thee, blame the aspiring 
part [voice 

Which Caesar chose, since Rome's consenting 
That Caesar hailed the Emperor of her choice. 
' Great as thou art I' they cried, ' to glory born, 

[ The humbler fortunes of thy fathers scorn ; 



WALPURGIS NIGHT— FROM "FAUST.' 



Z77 



A throne for thee the favoring powers ordain, 
An empire worthy Jove's immortal reign. 
Seize then the blessing, and, with sails un- 
furled [world ; 
Launch forth at once the sovereign of the 
O'er Rome and Rome's proud lords extend 

thy sway 
And bow by arms her senate to obey ! " 

Smiling calm scorn on Caesar's vaunting pride. 
Thus to his vain appeal the sage replied : — 
" How weak that judgment which decides a 

fame 
By the low rabble's censure or acclaim ! 
An impious herd, unprincipled and bold 
The tools of faction and the slaves of gold. 
Stand ever prompt at mad ambition's call 
Alike to pour their venal praise on all ; 
With throats of brass to thunder forth the 

deeds 
Of each proud consul who for triumph pleads ; 
Who their base suflfrage (still by gifts ob- 
tained). 
Bribes with the wealth from plundered na- 
tions drained ; 
And from the hackneyed bursts of such ap- 
plause. 
Drawest thou a sanction, Julius, to thy cause ? 
O lost to shame, to truth, to honor lost. 
Who glorying thus in infamy can boast 
The triumph of his guilt ! Say. in the throng 
Who roared thy praise in their intemperate 

song. 
And like wild bacchants m their orgies lewd, 
With drunken riot sober sense subdued, 
Joined there one citizen whose generous soul 
Breathed its free thoughts disdainful of con- 
trol? [led. 
Spoke there one man but those by mterest 
Of fame regardless, and to virtue dead ?" 

ELIZABETH RVVES. 



WALPURGIS NIGHT-FROM "FAUST." 

Scene : Harts Atoimtaiiis ; — Present : Faust. 
Mepkistopheles, and Witches. 

Meph. Come, be alive — so far, so well, 
We're at the half-way pinnacle. 
The worst is over now ; catch fast 
My mantle, while we turn and cast 
A glance beneath us on the mines 
Where Mammon in the mountains shines ! 



Faust. What a strange glimmer stains the 
ground. 
Like the dull heavy clouds around 
The east, ere yet the sun ascends : 
Far down the dusky hue extends, 
For leagues below earth's surface spread. 
A gloomy, thick, discolored red, 
Tinging the dreary sides of this 
Desperate, hope-deadening precipice — 
Here rises smoke, there vaporous white- 
ness. 
But yonder what a blaze of brightness 
On every object round is gleaming ! 
Now in a narrow thread 'tis streaming, 
And now the illuminating current 
Bursts sparkling like a winter torrent, 
Here, round the vale, you see it wind. 
In long veins delicate and slender. 
And there in bondage strict confined. 
It brightens into burning splendor! 
A thousand sparks, like gold-dust, sprink 

ling 
The waste air. are before us twinkling, 
And see the tall rock kindling, bright'nmg. 
Glows with intensity of lightning- 
Turret, 'twould seem — and fence and spii-e 
Lit up at once with festal fire. 
Meph. Well, is not Mammon's princely hs.ll 
Lit gayly for our festival ! 
I'm glad you've seen it — the wild night 
Bodes storm, that soon will hide it quite — 
Already is it swept from sight. 
Wild work is on the winds — I see already 
Omens that say the boisterous guests are 
coming. 
Faust. The angry gale blows insolently 
upon us ! 
How keen and cold upon my neck it falls. 
Like strokes of some sharp weapon. 
Meph. Firmly seize 

The old projections of the ribbed rock — 
Else it will blow you down into the chasm 
Yawning below us like a sepulchre. 
Clouds frown heavily, and hearken 
How the wood groans as they darken. 
And the owls, in fear and frigh' 
At the stormy face of night. 
Beat the air in homeward flight ; 
The halls of evergreen are shaking. 
And their thousand pillars breaking. 
Hearken how the tempest wrenches 
Groaning trunks and crashing branches. 
And the earth beneath is rifted. 
And the shrieking trees uplifted — 



178 



Bole, and bough, and blossom cheerful. 

Fair trees fall in ruin fearful ; 

How the haughty forest brothers 

Bend and tremble I — how they fall I 

How they cling on one another's 

Arms I — each crushes each and smothers, 

Till, tangled, strangled, down come all ; 

And the wild Winds through the ruin 

Are howling, hissing, and hallooing! 

Down the valleys how they sweep. 

Round and round, above and under. 

Rend the giant cliffs asunder. 

And. with shout and scream ap[>alling. 

Catch the mighty fragments falling ! 

How they laugh, and how they leap. 

As they hurry oflf their plunder I 

Headlong steep, and gorges deep. 

Gulf, and glen, and rock, in wonder. 

Echo back the stormy thunder ! 

List '. — I thought I heard a ringing 

In my ear of voices singing — 

Above, around us, faint, now clearer. 

Distant now, now warbling nearer ; 

Now, all the haunted hill along. 

Streams the maddening, magic song I 
WiTCHKS IN Chorus. On to the Rrocken 
the witches are flocking— 
Merry meet, merry part, how they gallop 
and drive. 

Yellow stubble and stalk are rocking. 
And young green corn is merr>' alive. 

With the shapes and shadows swimming by. 
To the highest heights they fly. 
Where Sir Urian sits on high. 

Throughout and about. 

With clamor and shout. 

Drives the maddening rout. 

Over stock, over stone ; 

Shriek, laughter, and moan. 

Before them are blown. 
A Voice. Before the rest— beyond the best— 

Who to lead the group is fitter .' 

In savage pride see Baubo ride 

On her sow about to litter. 
Chorus, Baubo — honor to whom honor — 

Benediction be upon her — 

Foward. mother ! — as we speed us. 

Who so fit as thou to lead us ! 

Foward — clear the way before us ! 

Then follow we in screaming chorus ! 
A Voice. Whence came you ? 1 

A Voice. Over Ilsenstein — 

As I passed 1 jxjeped into a nest 



POEMS or THE IMAGINATION. 



And the night-owl, scared from her stupid 

rest, 
Fi.xed her frightened eyes on mine ! [past, 
.A Voice. She grazed my side as she hurried 
And the skin is sore and the blast is chill : 
Look there — see where— 'tis bleeding still. 
Chorus of Wuches. The way is long, and 
weary, and wide — [side — 

And the madman throng crowds on every 
The pitchforks scratch, and the broom- 
sticks scrape. 
Will the child within escape. 
When the mother, crushed to death. 
Suffocating, pants for breath.' 
Wizards and Warlocks [Sem/cliorus i]. 
Like the lazy snail, we linger and trail : 
Our woman-kind as fleet as the wind. 
Have left us far and far behind — 
On a road like this men droop and drivel. 
While woman goes fearless and fast to the 
devil. 
Wizards and Warlocks [Sfmic/iorus i]. 
Swift they go, and swift they go, 
.\nd gain a thousand steps or so. 
But slow is swift, and swift is slow. 
Woman will bustle, and woman will justle. 
But yet at the end will lose the day. 
For hurr)' and hurry as best she may, 
Man at one long bound clears the way. 
Voices fro.m above. Come with us — come 
with us from Felsen-see, 
From the lake of rocks to the eagle height 
Of the hills — come with us — to-night— to- 
night! 
Voices fro.m below. To wander above, is 
the thing wc love. 
Oh for one hour of this one night ! 
For one mad dance on the Brocken height ! 
When shall we join in the wild delight? 
We have washed, and washed, and washed 

us white 
Again and again — we are barren quite — 
But our hearts are aglow, our cheeks are 
bright — [a-right. 

We have watched a-left — we have watched 
And we hear the sound of the far-off flight 
As they hurry away, and are swept from 

sight. j 

The Two Choruses. That wind that scat- 
tered the clouds is dead, [moon : 
And they thicken soon o'er the wandering 
She hides her head — and the stars arc fled : 
With a whispering, whistling, drizzling 
sound. 



ECDICIUS AND LALAGE. 



379 



And a fall of meteor fires around — 
Onward, onward, hurry, skurr)', 
The hell-driven rout of wizards hurry. 
Voice from below. Stop — stop — stop! 
Voice from above. What voice is this 
Calls to us from the abyss .' 
Seems it that the words just spoken 
From the crannied rock have broken? 
Voice from below. Stop— stop — stop — for 
me — for me — 
Guarded and bound with slant rocks round — 
Stop — stop — stop — and make me free — 
Three hundred years moiling, three hun- 
dred years toiling, 
Hurr)' work — weary work — step after step ; 
I grasp and I grope, and in time I have hope 
To climb to the top — sisters, stop — sisters, 
stop — [prayer, 

I anoint every joint, and I pray my own 
In the May-sabbath night, to the Prince of 
the air. — [hinder'd 

Are you not my kindred ? — and why am I 
From mixing among you, and meeting him 
there ? 
Both Choruses. Brooms fly fast when war- 
locks ride 'em ; 
Rams, with those who know to guide 'em ; 
Broken branches gallop lightly ; 
Pitchforks, too, make coursers sprightly. 
A buck-goat or boar is as good as the best 
of them, [rest of them ? 

Each man for himself and who cares for the 
Many an egg-shell air-balloon 
To-night will land at our saloon ; 
He who fails in his endeavor 
To join us now, is gone forever. 
Half-Witch \from ifkmA.. Far away I hear 
their laughter. 
Hopelessly I stumble after ; 
Cannot rest at home in quiet — 
Here I cannot join the riot. 
Witches [in chorus\ Strengfth is given us 
by this ointment — 
We will keep to-night's appointment — 
We can speed on sea, no matter 
Were the sail a cobweb tatter ; 
And a plank as weak and thin as 
Snail's abandoned shell our pinnace. 
He who cannot fly to-night. 
Will never soar a wizard's flight. 
Both Choruses. And when we've reached 
the topmost bound. 
Like swallows skim the haunted ground ; 



Far and wide upon the heath. 
Spread your circling guard beneath ; 
Watch and ward 'gainst treacherj'. 
With all the hosts of witcherj-. 
Meph. The air is heavy and oppressive. 
And the whirling din excessive ; 
Rattling with the ceaseless babble 
Of the tumultuous hell-driven rabble ; 
Sultry, vaporous, and sickening; 
To a denser substance thickening, 
Burning noisomely, and glittering 
With fiery sparks forever frittering, 
Poisoning everything it reaches, — 
.Atmosphere for fiends and witches. 



lUi Gir 



of Goiliw 



joh> 



ECDICIUS AND LALAGE. 
ECDICIUS. This is a dull world. Ma.xentius, 
And a most sleepy city. Nothing stirs 
Worthy a moment's wonder day by day; 
Each like his fellow dwindles thro' the glass. 
The very Gallileans keep their peace. 
And we for prudent reasons are content 
To let them slumber safe. What news to-day? 

Maxentius. Little, my lord. A ship has come 

to port 
Having on board a messenger from Caesar, 
Who will be straightway here. The news of 
Is fortunate, — 'tis said the Persians fly ; [war 
Nothing beside save this, that from the Pharos, 
Another ship — a galley, too, of war — 
Is sighted out at sea, and in its wake 
Still further sail. 

ECDICIU.S. Belike more messengers 

Of Julian's fiery mind. 'Tis well, Maxentius, 
I would be left alone. Let none approach. 
Unless indeed the Lady Lalage. — 

I had an evil dream last night ; I dreamt 
That death had taken me and Lalage, 
And on his mighty wings had wafted us 
i To the chill side of Sty.x. Alone we stood, 
.■\lone and shivering in the starless air ; 
And at our feet the oozy water washed 
With loathsome lapping ; and a silent fear 
Possessed my soul, for it most strangely seem- 
That we had left some well-lit festival [ed 
To pass between the gloomy gates of death 



38o 



POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 



And watch that sundering stream — on the one 
Our agony, and on the other side [side 

Thick dari<ness and the drear abode of Dis. 
Then, as we waited, on the stream appeared 
A wherry, and the form of one that rowed. 
I beckoned, and he came. Ye gods, how cold 
The slippery ledge where could our feet scarce 
As she and I — yea, I and Lalage — [cling. 
Stood waiting for that fatal boat to hold 
Its silent passage on that murky tide ! 
For round that prow the waves went noise- 
lessly. 
Then, as the boat drew nearer, she and I 
Looked at each other ; and I most miserable, 
I stooped and kissed thatsweet small mouth of 

hers. 
So cold with death behind, and clung to her 
With a great joy to find love not forgot 
In that dim kingdom of the pallid shades. 
Then clinging to that last long kiss of ours, 
We turned and saw the barge lay but a length 
From where we stayed : and then I saw the 

face 
Who wafted it to shore. It was the face 
Of that dark hermit, with a smile on it 
Of such malignant triumph that the look 
Haunts me to-day, as it would stay by me 
Till I had seen the latest of my suns. 
Then Lalage cried out. — a fearful cry \ 
Whereat, like some spell broken, all the place. 
The silent stream and the gray silent rocks. 
And that wild face that bent its gaze on us. 
And she and I, all seemed to float away 
Upon a tide of dreams ; and I awoke 
With that wild cr)' still ringing m my ears. 
And that fell visage staring into mine. 
To thank the gods I had but had a dream. 
And when I tell it, Lalage will laugh 
Her laugh, so sweet a man might die to hear; 
And I shall kiss her, and it be forgot 

( La lage comes in . ) 
Lalage. So grave and full of thought ? 

Then Lalage troubles the State. 



EcDiciUS. Let all the fond world perish 

Before one thought for it should be a bar 
Between us twain I But 'twas not to the State 
My mind was given, but to yourself, sweet 
What have you there ? [queen ! 

Lalage. Here is a thing for you 

I took this moment from a fellow's hand, 
A messenger of Julian's fresh from sea, 
The ver)' foam upon him, and his speech 
Salt as the ocean. He would fain refuse 
The precious roll to me ; but when I frowned. 
And bent my forehead in Olympian wTath, 
He yielded up his treasure. Welcome me, 
If not for mine own merit, for the grace 
That girdles an imperial messenger. 

EcDiciu.s. Angel of love, thou art more wel- 
come here 
Than Julian's herald, or than Jove himself. 
With all the stars about him. Where is this 
That knows so rare a bearer.' [letter 

Lalage. Great Ecdicius. 

Upon my knees I humbly offer up 
The sacred characters that Cffisar's hand 
Has traced on parchment, holied by histoucn 
Beyond the human. Do I carry it well .' 
Is it not thus that all you lesser gods, 
Jove's deputies, are customed to receive 
The heavenly message .' 

Ecdicius. Never, by thy goddess. 

From such an Iris : nor do kisses p>ay 
The pains of Caesar's jjeople. 

Lalage. Truce ! a truce 

Vou do forget your letter, stay my breath, 
.\nd outrage Caesar. Let us both be wise. 
Read you your letter. I will stand aloof 
And look wise counsel. 

JU.SriN H. .MCARTHV. 
From ** Srrapion" a dramatic poem. 



PART VIL 

POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



She is a rich and rare land ; 
Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land ; 
She is a dear and rare land — 
This native land of mine. 

No men than her's are braver, — 
Her women's hearts ne'er waver,— 
I'd freely die to save her, 
And think my lot divine. 

She's not a dull or cold land ; 
No ! she's a warm and bold land ; 
Oh ! she's a true and old land, — 
This native land of mine. 

Could beauty ever guard her, 
And virtue still reward her, 
No foe would cross her border — 
No friend within it pine. 

Ob ! she's a fresh and fair land ; 

Oh ! she's a true and rare land ; 

Yes, she's a rare and fair land, — 

This native land of mine. 



THOMAS DAVIS. 



1 
POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 


TO IRELAND. 
My country, wounded to the heart, 

Could I but flash along thy soul 
Electric power to rive apart 

The thunder clouds that round thee roll. 
And by my burning words uplift 
Thy life from out Death's icy drift. 
Till the full splendors of our age 
Shone round thee for our heritage— 
As Miriam's, by the Red Sea strand 
Clashing proud cymbals, so my hand 
Would strike thy harp 
Loved Ireland ! 

She flung her triumphs to the stars 

In glorious chants for freedom won. 
While over Pharaoh's gilded cars 

The fierce, death-bearing waves rolled on ; 
I can but look in God's great face. 
And pray Him for our fated race. 
To come in Sinai thunders down. 
And, with his mystic radiance, crown 
Some prophet leader with command 
To break the strength of Egypt's band. 
And set them free, 
Loved Ireland ! 

New energies, from higher source. 

Must make the strong life-currents flow. 
As Alpine glaciers in their course 

Stir deep the torrents 'neath the snow. 
The woman's voice dies in the strife 
Of Liberty's awakening life : 
We wait the hero-heart to lead, 
The hero who can guide at need. 
And strike with bolder, stronger hand 
Tho' towering hosts his path withstand, 
Thy golden harp. 
Loved Ireland 1 


For I can breathe no trumpet call 

To make the slumbering soul arise ; 
I only lift the funeral pall. 

That so God's light might touch thine eyes. 
And ring the silver prayer-bell clear. 
To rouse thee from thy trance of fear ; 
Yet. if thy mighty heart has stirred 
Even with one pulse-throb at my word. 
Then not in vain my woman's hand 
Has struck the gold harp while I stand 
Waiting thy rise, 
Loved Ireland ! 

LADY WILDE, 


SOUL AND COUNTRY. 

Arise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! 
And learn what yet remains for thee. 
To dree or do ! 
The signs are flaming in the skies— 
A struggling world would yet be free, 
And live anew. 
The earthquake hath not yet been born. 
That soon shall rock the lands around. 
Beneath their base. 
Immortal freedom's thunder horn. 
As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
To Europe's race. 

Look round, my soul, and see and say 
If those about thee understand 
Their mission here ; 
The will to smite — the power to slay — 
Abound in every heart— and hand 
Afar, anear. 
But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year.' 
O, dream it not ! 



384 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
Begot and born of moral fear— 
And ill-begot ! 

To leave the world a name is nought ; 
To leave a name for glorious deeds 
And works of love — 
A name to waken lightning thought. 
And fire the soul of him who reads. 
This tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-day before 
The unguilded shrine, the singU soul 
Of Washington ; 
Truths name, alone, shall man adore, 
Long as the waves of time shall roll 
Henceforward on I 

My countrymen I my words are weak. 
My health is gone, my soul is dark. 
My heart is chill- 
Vet would I fain and fondly seek 
To see you borne in freedom's bark 
O'er ocean still. 
Beseech your God, and bide your hour 
He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; 
Even now his tread 
Is heard o'er earth with coming p)ower ; 
And coming, trust me, it will come. 
Else were he dead I 

JAMES CLARENCE .MANGAN. 



MY NATIVE LAND. 
It chanced to me upon a time to sail | 

Across the Southern Ocean to and fro ; j 
And. landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep. 

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone. 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless 
sweep. 

And left us yearning still for lands unknown. 

And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle.— 
For one short noon its treasures filled the 
mind, [smile. 

And then again we yearned, and ceased to 
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 

Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; 
And when that all was tasted, then at last 

■We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. 



I learned from this there is no Southern land 

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. i 

Sick minds need change ; but, when in health < 

they stand (again, j 

"Neath foreign skies their love flies home j 

And thus with me it was : theyearning turned i 

From laden airs of cinnamon away, I 

And stretched far westward, while the full I 
heart burned 

With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay! 

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! 

My land that has no peer in all the sea i 

For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,— j 

If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the first I 

Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and 
smiles: 
Like that kind face and breast where 1 was 

nursed [ 

Is my poor land, the Niobo of isles. 

JOHN BOVLE O'REILLY. ' 



SWEET INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet Innisfallen. fare thee well. 

May calm and sunshine long be thine! 

How fair thou art let others tell,— 
To feel how fair shall long be mine. 

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 
In memory's dream that sunny smile. 

Which o'er thee on that evening fell. 
When first I saw thy fairy isle. 

'Twas light, indeed too blest for one 
Who had to turn to paths of care,— 

Through crowded haunts again to run. 
And leave thee bright and silent there. 

No more unto thy shores to come, 
But on the world's wide ocean tossed. 

Dream of thee sometimes as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 

Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now. 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers. 
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace. 

Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place 

Where erring man might hope to rest- 



THE RIXG AXD THE CROWN. 



385 



Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree. 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And all the lovelier for thy tears — 
For though but rare thy sunny smile, 

'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few. 
But, when indeed they come, divine — 

The brightest light the sun e'er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 

THOMAS MOORE. 



A NATIONAL ANTHEM. 
God save our native land ! 
May His strong sustaining hand 
Be for aye her sure protection and her stay ; 
May He bid her strength increase. 
Give her comfort, joy, and peace. 
And banish feud and faction far away! 
God save Ireland, pray we loudly, 
May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
From every harm and woe 
That may lay a nation low. 
May God save Ireland, say we all ! 

From evil-hearted foes, 

And from traitors worse than those. 
From schemings of the slavish and the vile, 

From the blighting civil strife 

That makes dark a nation's life. 
Oh. may God protect our own beloved isle ! 

God save Ireland, pray we loudly. 

May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
From every harm and woe 
That may lay a nation low, 

May God save Ireland, say we all ! 

May a grace from God above 

Fill her people's hearts with love, [hurled, 
May foolish hates and fears from thence be 

And her sons for ever stand 

Gallant guardians of a land 
The brightest and the bravest in the world ! 

God save Ireland, pray we loudly. 

May Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
From every harm and woe 
That may lay a nation low. 

May God save Ireland, say we all! 



May the years, as on they roll. 

Never touch her heart or soul 
■With a stain to dim her old and honored name. 

But may Ireland dear be still 

As a light upon a hill. 
In the pure and holy splendor of her fame! 

God save Ireland, pray we loudly, 

Mav Heaven's choicest blessings on her fall ! 
From every harm and woe 
That may lay a nation low. 

May God save Ireland, say we all ! 

TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 



THE RING AND THE CROWN. 
The banqueting hall is a glare of light, 

It gleams on the ruddy wine — 
On the fair queen's face as she feasts to-night. 
On the gems and the raiment fine. 
And her crown of gold. 
Is it the wind or a woman's wail 

That rings through the palace wide .' 
The face of the fair queen grows death-pale. 
■' It is naught," saith one at her side- 
But her lips are cold. 

" One stands witnout at the palace gate. 

Fair queen, and would speak with thee." 
" Bid her come in. for the hour is late, 
And say what she would with me. 
Ere the night be spent." 
■■ She will not within. In mist and rain 

On the threshold stone she stands ; 
She bears a sword and a broken chain. 
And a ring on her bleeding hands. 
And a banner rent. 

" Her face gleams wnite thro' the driving rain, 

In her eyes there sleepeth Death ; 
The ring thou gavest she brings thee again — 

•Thy ring for her crown,' she saith. 
And bids thee come down." 
The queen hath risen and left her place. 

On the threshold stone she stands, 
In the wind and rain they meet face to face ; 

One bears a ring in her bleeding hands. 
And one wears a crown. 

•' Pale sister, enter and dwell with me, 
Thy banner and sword lay down ; 

Thy chains are broken, thy hands are free. 
And what would avail a crown 
For thy pallid brow.?" 



386 



POEMS OF PATJilOTISM. 



" Nay. sister, I pass not within thy door, 

On the stone there is a stain— 
The blood of my sons is on the floor ; 

God judge between us twain 
As we stand here now." 

■' Within is shelter, and bread, and wine- 

Oh ! enter and rest thee here." 
" The cry of famine, fair sister mine. 

It ringeth still in mine ear. 
And thy voice is low." 
" Pale woman, thy vesture dark lay by — 

Here are robes for thee to wear," 
" Nay, sister, there is a crimson dye 

That stains thy raiment fair — 
Whence it comes I know ! 

" I bring thy ring for my crown," she saith. 

But the fair queen turns in scorn 
From the weary eyes where sleepeth Death, 

And the feet that are bruised and worn • 
And the night is long. 
In the wind and the rain, in the silent street, 

Alone a woman stands, 
A ring she hath trodden beneath her feet. 

And she bears a sword in her hands 
To avenge her wrong. 

UNA A.SHWORTH TAYLOR. 



ERINA REGINA. 
O land of the harp and the shamrock, 
O fair land and gallant and true. 
O land that no power can subdue. 
So brave in the trust that cndureth. 
So firm in the faith that assureth, 
So steadfast and fearless. 
Through ages all cheerless. 

And dim with the darkness of wrong! — 
O daughter of sorrow, long stricken. 

And sorrowing ever anew. 
With grief and with longings that quicken 

To pangs and to prayer and to song. 
While shadows around thee still thicken 

And scarcely one ray shineth through ! — 
O queen in the high court of duty. 
Though prone in thy grace and thy beauty 

And trampled and bound by the strong. 
Who cruelly taunt and deride thee. 
And mockingly jeer thee, or chide thee, 

And scourge thee with many a thong— 
O queen, though long robbed of thy reign 
Yet despair not ; thou'lt have it again, 



I And the crown that is ruthlessly rent from thee 

now. 
Yet once more shall sit fair on thy brow ! 

Man's strength is the strength of an hour. 

And the strength of the tyrant is man's . 
It breaks in the pride of its power. 
Yea, breaks like the stem of a flower. 
And crumbles and passes away ; 

.■\nd the mightest measures and plans 
Beaten out in the forges of mind. 
To repress, and to shackle and bind. 
Drop to dust on the pathway of time ; 
And though wrong be triumphant to-day. 

Yet the purpose of Heaven remains. 

And though justice lie bleeding in chains 
At the feet of incarnadined crime. 
Yet shall right 
Rise in panoplied might. 

And lift up, and avenge, and requite ; 
And the haughtiest captains and kings 

Shall go down as the proudest have gone : 

Shall go down, leaving nought but a name . 
And their dust shall be scattered on wings 
Of the wind unto places where none 

Shall know ought of their fame or their 
shame I 
O brave land ! that hath suffered so lonji. 

O true land ! that the ages have seen 
Steadfast still, with the grasp of the strong 

On thy throat — O immutable queen ! 
Yet again shall the crown that is now 
Ravished from thee, embellish thy brow : 

The night and the darkness are passing. 
The dawn and the splendor draw near. 
Be of cheer, O true land, be of cheer. 

For on fields that you see not are massing 
Strong forces that patiently form 

For the sanctified task of redressing 
The wrongs that have grown with the years 
Not wild forces of tumult and storm. 

That descend and destroy, and arc broken, 
Leaving ruin and madness and tears, 

.\nd the shame that can never be spoken, 
1 Not these, but the legions of thought. 

Slowly marshalling over the world, 
' With the legends of liberty wrought 
I Upon banners that ne'er shall be furled. 
They will come to thee, Erin, at last, 

Lol their plumes are on mountain and 

Thou wilt rise when they greet thee, and 



387 



From thy limbs every fetter and chain ; 

And from lands of the east and the west, 
Shall thy far-scattered children return 

Never more to weep with thee and mourn, 

Never more to behold thee opprest. 
But to clasp thee and crown thee again, 

And to build thee a throne, [reign. 

Where, triumphant, once more thou shalt 

Happy Queen of Thine Own. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



THE BANSHEE. 

Green, in the wizard arms 
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic. 
An isle of old enchantment, 
A melancholy isle. 
Enchanted and dreaming lies; 
And there, by Shannon's flowing. 
In the moonlight, spectre-thin. 
The spectre, Erin, sits. 

An aged desolation. 

She sits by old Shannon's flowing. 

A mother of many children. 

Of children exiled and dead ; 

In her home, with bent head, homeless. 

Clasping her knees she sits. 

Keening, keening. 

And at her keene the fairy-grass 

Trembles on dun and barrow ; 

Around the foot of her ancient crosses 

The rj-e-grass shakes and the foxglove swings ; 

In haunted glens the meadow-sweet 

Flings to the night wind 

Her mystic mournful perfume : 

The sad spearmint by holy wells 

Breathes melancholy balm. 

Sometimes she lifts her head, 

With blue eyes tearless. 

And gazes athwart the reek of night 

Upon things long past. 

Upon things to come. 

And sometimes when the moon 
Brings tempest upon the deep. 
And roused Atlantic thunders from 
His caverns in the west. 
The wolf-hound at her feet 
Springs up with a mighty bay. 
And chords of mysterj' sound from 
The wild harp at her side. 



Strung from the heart of poets ; 

And she flies on the wings of tempest 

Around her shuddering isle, 

With gray hair streaming, 

A meteor of evil omen. 

The spectre of hope forlorn, 

Keening, keening. 

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp 

Shiver on the gusts of night : 

O'er the four waters she keenes — 

Over Moyle she keenes. 

O'er the sea of Miledth, 

And the strait of Strongbow, 

And the ocean of Columbus. 

And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her 
cloudy hovering heroes. 

And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters 
of Innisfail, 

Chanting her song of destiny. 

The rune of the weaving Fates ; 

And the nations hear, in the void and quak- 
ing time of night, 
; Sad unto dawning, dirges. 
! Solemn dirges. 

And snatches of bardic song ; 

And they dream of the weird of kings, 

And tyrannies moulting, sick 

In the dreadful wind of change. 

Wail no more. Lonely one ! 
Mother of Exiles, wail no more ! 
Banshee of the world — no more ! 
Thy sorrows are the world's. 
Thou art no more alone — 
Thy wrongs, the world's. 

JOHN TODHUNTER. 



IRELAND- 1882. 

"Island of Destiny! Innisfail! 

when their wearj' ej'es 
First looked on thy beauteous bosom from 

the amorous ocean rise. 



they cried 



"Island of Destiny! Innisfail!" we cry. dear 

land, to thee. 
As the sun of thy future rises and reddens the 

Eastern sea ! 



3»8 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Pregnant as Earth with its gold and gems and It is mud that coheres ; but the sand is free. 

its metals strong and fine. till the lightning smite the shore. 

Is thy soul with its ardors and fancies and And smelt the grains to a crystal mass, to re- 
sympathies divine. turn tosand no more. 

Mustard seed of the nations I they scattered And so with the grains of our Irish sand, that 

thy leaves to the air, flash clear-eyed to the sun. 

And the ravisher pales at their harvest that When a grand Idea smites them and smelts 

flourishes everywhere. them into one I 

Queen in the right of thy courage! manacled. When the sands are free. O Tyranus! like the 

scourged, defamed ; wind are your steel and speech ; 

Thy voice in the teeth of the bayonets the your brute force crushes a legion, but a soul 

right of a race proclaimed. it can never reach. 

" Bah ! •' they sneered from their battlements ; Ireland of Destiny ! Innisfail ! for thy faith is 

'• her people cannot unite ; the payment near: 

They are sands of the sea, that break before j^e mine of thy future is opened, and the 

the rush of our ordered might ! " golden veins appear. 

And wherever the flag of the pirate flew, the j^y hands are white and thy page unstained. 

English slur was heard, '■ Reach out for the glorious years. 

And the souls of the shallow echoed the And take them from God as His recompense 

boast of the robbers word. for thy fortitude and tears. 

But we— O Sun ! that of old was our god, we j^ou canst stand by the way ascending, as 

look in thy face to-day, thy tyrant goes to the base : 



As our Druids who prayed in the ancient time, 
and with them we proudly say : 

"We have wronged no race ; we have robbed no 
land ; we have never oppressed the 
weak !" 

And this in the face of Heaven is the nobler 
thing to speak. 

We cannot unite — thank God for that \— in 

such unity as yours. 
That strangles the rights of others, and only 

itself endures. 

As the guard of a blood-stained spoil and the 
red-eyed watch of the slave ; 

No need for such cursed unity to a race free- 
souled and brave. 

The peoples that band for plunder are the 
mud of the human stream. 

The base and the coward and sordid, without 
an unselfish gleam. 

It is mud that unites ; but the sand is free — 

ay, every grain is free. 
And the freedom of individual men is the 

highest of liberty! 



The seeds of her death are in her, and the 
signs in her cruel face. 

On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, 
[ with whose blood her feet are red ; 

And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud 
I above her head. 

O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem 

from a Syrian tomb. 
The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy 

light in the gloom. 

Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world : 
there is none that hates but one ; 

And she must hate as a pretext for the rapine 
she has done. 

The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky 

in the East is red : 
Thy children watch from the mountain tops 

for the sun to kiss thy head. 

O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for 

their test for Freedom borne. 
Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits 
I but the coming morn ! 

JUHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



TO IRELAND. 



389 



OUT OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

Erin— 1800— 1885. 

" She died from you," they said, " in the flush 
of lier bridal bloom." 
But they lied with their hearts and lips- 
beloved, thou could'st not die ! , 
They lured thee out of my arms, and shut j 
thee alive in the tomb. 
And guarded with fire and sword the place 
of thine agony. | 

And they laughed but yester-eve, in their 
cruel strength and scorn. 
Saying, " Still through the years he seeks 
her — O fondest, faithfullest ! 
And still are fools to follow his beck on a 
hope forlorn, 
And never a one a-weary — and oh, the idle 
quest !" 

Did they dream their swords could sunder the 
bonds of soul to soul ? 
Or that flames could daunt my purpose, 
though lit from the central hell ? 
Ah, they thought I grieved like a man — that 
time would ease my dole, 
With a new fair face forgetting what late I 
loved so well. 

They knew me not — changeless, deathless, 
what time with heart grief-riven. 
For thee in mortal seeming the paths of 
pain I trod — 
But I am Freedom— Freedom — and I've stood 
in the highest heaven. 
With the seven armored angels who guard 
the throne of God. 

Courage, mine own, nor falter, but hold for 
thy life to me- 
Look not back where the flames and the 
swords and the serpents were- 
Look up ! for yon stars are the souls of the 
men who died for thee, 
Crushed under the stone they would roll 
from the door of thy sepulchre. 

Ah, me ! but thy face is wan, and thy sweet 
eyes dimmed with tears. 
And the soul on thy pale lips flutters as if 
it were fain to flee — 
Ah, God ! for thy years of waiting — thy tor- 
tured, murdered years — 
Ere I rent thy tomb and fled through the 
Valley of Death with thee ! 



But oh ! for our journey's end, and home, and 
the light of dawn, 
And the sweet green earth, the bird-singing, 
the balm of the soft sea air — 
Oh, to hold thee close to my heart till the 
chill of the grave is gone 
And kiss thy lips and thy hands and the 
strands of thy long fair hair. 

Courage, mine own, nor falter, but cling for 
thy life to me — 
Hear the home-welcoming music, nor faint 
nor far away- 
And the conquering Cross ablaze in the 
heavens above us — see ! 
We are out of the Shadow of Death — but 
one step more to the day ! 

K.\THERINE E. CONWAY 



TO IRELAND. 



A song of love to my own old land, 

The land of my fathers' graves. 
Though none to-night in so sad a plight 

Looks over old ocean's waves. 
New lands arise beneath other skies ; 

Old lands from their thrall spring up ; 
Still in captive state at the stranger's gate 

Thou art draining the bitter cup. 
But still my love unto thee, old land, 
And to every land to-night. 
Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed. 
That fell in the cause of Right ! 

Yet thou wert great in thy time, old land. 

Though fallen and captive now, 
A sceptre swayed in thy queenly hand. 

And a crown on thy regal brow. 
In the days of eld thy sons upheld 

The painted Briton's cause ; 
Gave a grave to the Dane on their native plain, 

And to Scotland her kings and laws. 
So here is my love unto thee, old land. 
And to every land to-night. 
Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed, 
That fell in the cause of Right I 

Then thou wert a name of renown, old land. 
In the halls of the chiefs and kings ; 

When thoughts divine, like the beaded wine, 
Arose from the minstrel's strings. 



390 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM 



Then the Brehon gave his counsel grave. 

And the Druid his runic lore; — 
The light of their time to their race anri 
clinic, — 

And the saints could do no more. 
Then here is my love unto them, old land, 
And to all true men to-night. 
Whether East or West in their homes op- 
pressed. 
Or that fell in the cause of Right. 

When I look from those ages to this, old land. 

And the stormy gulf between. 
Where by field and flood your heroes stood. 

The Red above — or the Green : 
With a soul aflame, each glorious name 

Through the clouds of time I call ; 
But to check my joy, I see thee nigh. 

And a mourner, the last of all. 
Still a song of love to thee, old land. 
And to every land to-night. 
Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed. 
That fell isi the cause of Right ! 

Yes, thou art g^eat in thy lore, old land. 

And thy gift, divine, of song ; 
Thou art even great in thy fallen state. 

For thy ceaseless hate of wrong. 
Ay, free or thrall, thou wert great in all. 

But greatest of all to me. 
That though stricken low by a heartless foe. 

Thou never wouldst bend the knee. 
Then here is my love unto thee, old land. 
And to every land to-night. 
Whether East or West, by the tyrant pressed, 
That fell in the cause of Right I 

JOHN BOYLE. 



SHE IS NOT DEAD ! 

Who said that thou wast dead, O darling of 
my heart ? 
My fairest one amid the daughters. 
My lily brooding on the waters. — 
Who said that thou wast dead, and I from 
thee must part? 

Who said that thou wast dead, and called me 

from thy side .' 

Bright saint and queen of my devotion. 

My spotless, priceless pearl of ocean,— 

My bitter ban shall rest upon the knaves who 

lied! 



1 They said that thou wast dead, tho" fair thy 
beauty shone. 
My sweet Undine gently gleaming [ing. 
Thro" crystal mists of tear-drops stream- 
That catch the iris-tints from .Aphrodite's 

They said that thou wast dead, O chosen one 

of Fate.— 

My sovereign lady proud and peerless. 

My swan-like Valkyr wild and fearless. 

My deathless maid whose soul recks not for 

love or hate. 

They said that thou wast dead, they wiled me 
far from thee : 
But ah I my heart was sadly pining, — 
' Its tendrils still around thee twining. 
Drew back my soul in bonds, as noonbcams 
draw the sea. 

And then I saw that still the life was in thine 
! eyes. 

O sweet I most loved, most sorrow-laden ! 
The flashes from thy ravished Aidenn 
Played o'er tny face like lightnings o'er the 
twilight skies. 

And then I knew at last that thou could'st 
never die, 
O sister of the great Immortals, 
That standest hard by Freedom's pwrtals, 
j Until an unseen Hand shall open from on 
I high- 

Lo ! roses red thy lovers strew before thy 

shrine. [flowing, 

Dipped deep in bl<jod from heart-veins 

1 With hues of death and passion glowing, 

I Yet thou regardest not. for thou wast born 

divine. 

Lo I roses while thy lovers strew before thy 
feet, 
Bright blossoms of pure lives and holy ; 
But thy firm eyes look upward solely. — 
Our love can bring no offerings that for thee 
are meet. 

Thou art our queen. — we bare our bosoms 
to thy tread ; 
Thy empty throne for thee is waiting; 
Tread on, all heedless still of love or 
hating! 
Enough for us who kneel, to know thou art 
not dead. 

FANNY PARNKLL. 



391 



THE PRAYER OF IRELAND. 
O Lord ! my sorrows are too great to bear ! 
My feet wax weary and mine eyes grow dim ; 
Give ear. O Lord ! unto my earnest prayer 
And lift the burden from each wearied limb ! 
When others left Thee and blasphemed Thy 
With loyal faith I firmer clung to Thee; [name. 
Yet they are great in riches and in fame. 
While I have naught but shame and misery. 

Why hast Thou left me. Lord, these dreary 
Beneath the lashes of the tyrant's rod? [years 
Loud were my groans, and bitter all my tears, 
Yet these moved not Thy pity, O my God ! 
At times, so great my anguish and my grief — 
(O. Lord ! I crave forgiveness for the thought !) 
When I had prayed and did not find relief. 
Methought. O Lord, by Thee I was forgot! ; 

But yet Thy will in everything be done ! 
Thou knowest best ; but oh ! 'tis hard to bear. 
To be denied fair Freedom's glorious sun, 
Yet see it beaming round me everywhere : 
With naked feet to tread a thorny way, 
Faint and athirst, and grieving piteously. — 
Must this continue. O my God, for aye? 
Is there no end to my Gethsemane? 

Roll back. O Lord ! from the dark sepulchre. 
Where I have lain for many a wearyyear. 
The heavy stone that keeps me prisoned there; 
Strike low the girded guard that hovers near. 
Have pity. Lord, assuage my bitter woe ; 
With bleeding heart to Thee I fervent pray. 
To strike to earth the mocking, ruthless foe, 
And give to me ere long an Easter day ! 

Behold me. Lord, and ease my poignant pain. 

listen to my children's wailing cry ! [vain ? 
They pray to Thee — O shall their prayers be 
Aid them, my Father, else they surely die ! 
Or if it be Thy holy will that they 

Worse than Egyptian bondage must endure 
For years to be. O strengthen them, I pray. 
And keep their Faith both steadfast and 
secure ! 

What crime. O Lord, in primal hour was done 
By me or mine against Thy holy word. [sun. 
That blotted from our sky bright Freedom's 
And laid us prostrate 'neath a foreign horde ? 

1 know not. O my God ! but this I know. 

If we have sinned, our punishment is great ! 
Absolve us. Father! O. dispel our woe. [state ! 
And lift Thy children from their wretched 

» JAMES RYAN. 



ERIN. 



When Erin first rose from the dark swelling 

flood. 
God bless'd the green island, and saw it was 
I good ; 

I The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone. 
In the ring of the world, the most precious 

stone. 
In her sun. in her soil, in her station thrice 

blest, 
With her back towards Britain, her face to 

the West, 
Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore. 
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's 

deep roar. 

But when its soft tones seem to mourn and 

to weep, 
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the 

deep ; 
At the thought of the past the tears gush from 

her eyes. 
And the pulse of her heart makes her white 

bosom rise. 
O ! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time. 
When religion was war, and our country a 

crime. 
When man, in God's image, inverted his plan, 
And moulded his God in the image of man. 

When the int'rest of state wrought the general 

woe, 
The stranger a friend, and the native a foe ; 
While the mother rejoic'd o'er her children 

oppressed. 
And clasp'd the invader more close to her 

breast. 
When with pale for the body and pale for the 

soul. 
Church and state joined in compact to con- 
quer the whole ; 
And as Shannon was stained with Milesian 

blood . 
Ey'd each other askance and pronounced it 

was good. 

By the groans that ascend from your fore- 
fathers' grave. 

For their country thus left to the brute and 
the slave, 

Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den. 

And whpre Britain made brutes now let Erin 
make men. 



392 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock 

unite, 
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right. 
Give each his full share of the earth and the 

sky, 
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would 

die. 

Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen. 

Who would dye the grass red from their ha- 
tred to Green ; 

Yet. O ! when you're up and they're down, let 
them live. 

Then yield them that mercy which they would 
not give. 

Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as 
bra\e I 

And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! 

Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile 

The cause of. or men of. the Emerald Isle. 

The cause it is good and the men they are true, 
And the Green shall outlive both the Orange 

and Blue 1 
And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall 

share, 
With the full swelling chest and the fair flow- 
ing hair. 
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and 

brave. 
But no coward shall rest in that soft swelling 

wave I 
Men of Erin ! awake and make haste to be 

blest ; 
Rise, Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the 

West ! 

WILLIAM DRE.XNAX. 



Hast thou not sons, like the ocean-sands.^ 
Hast thou not sons with brave hearts and 

hands .' 
Hast thou not lu-irs for thy broad, bright lands.' 
What have they done. — or what will they do 

for thee .' 

Ireland, mother! 

Were I a man from thy glorious womb. 
I'd hurl the stone from thy living tomb : 
Thy grief should be joy, and light thy gloom. 
The rose should gleam "mid thy golden broom. 
Thy marish wastes should blossom and bloom ; 
I'd smite thy (oes with thy own long doom. 
While God's heaped judgments should round 

them loom ; 
Were I a man. lo I this would I do for thee, 
Ireland, mother ! 

FANNY PARNELL. 



IRELAND, MOTHER ! 
Vein of my heart. light of mine eyes. 
Pulse of my life, star of my skies. 
Dimmed is thy beauty, sad are thy sighs, 
Fairest and saddest, what shall I do for thee .•" 
Ireland, mother I 



Vain, ah vain is a woman's prayer ; 
Vain is a woman's hot despair ; 
Naught can she do. naught can she dare. — 
I am a woman, I can do naught for tjiee, 
Ireland, mother! 



ERIN. 

Love ! what have we done to thee ? 

Thou hast given thine own a bitter cup to 

drain ; 
I Thy kisses on our lips are red with pain ; 
I Where are our noblest, who for love of thee, 
j Made mad with glamour of thy matchless face 
j Found sweet as thy white arms the g.-ave's 
embrace ; [death, 

j And for thy sake danced down dim ways to 

Crowning their fair young brows with cypress 
! wreath 

' For roses at a feast .' Perchance they stand 

Freed from the fetters forged by thy small 
hand. 

Knee-deep in sun-washed meads of asphodel, 

Forgetting thee, and with them all is well. 

Dost thou forget the dear lives quenched in 
night. 

That still thine eyes smile with divinest light. 

And men go mad for one long look of them.' 

The mystic jewels of thy diadem 

.Are tears, and blood, and pain. O fatal fair. 

Thy love is but a fever and a fret ! 

With the gold river of thy sunset hair 

Hide thy white beauty, let ourthraldom cease. 

Away from thee are flower-set paths of pwace. 

And peace is sweet, and we would fain forget. 

So said I in my heart. 

Grown hot with pain for Emmet, and Wolfe 

Tone. 
And dear Lord Edward, all the fair seed sown, 



393 



Nor saw for tears the golden wheat ears 

start 
Where martjTs' blood is fruitful, and a rain 
Great as the seas hath dyed with crimson stain 
Thy deep-sea robe, and washed thy white feet 

red. 
Ah ! love, forgive, I knew not what I said ! 
They were thine own, thy yearning arms did 

hold 
The bodies rent for thee, thy lips were cold 
When thou didst kiss the faces, chill and 

fine. 
That flushed no more for any kiss of thine. 
Or any passion-sweet look, or love-soft tone. 
Beloved ! how oft in patience thou hast sown 
A shining growth for Freedom, when the 

skies 
Were red with dawn, and others' argosies 
Of golden, gleaming grain showed rich and 

heaped. 
And in thine hour, but this thy hand hath 

reaped — 
A fair, crushed harvest for thy granary. 
Tears, and a slain hope dead across thy knee. 

Death borne for thee were sweet. 

And glorified for thee are chains and shame. 

Our words are prayers when we name thy 

name ; 
Make of our hearts a pathway for thy feet 
To that fair goal of Freedom, where our 

hands 
Shall raise thy throne above all other lands, 
To shine for aye against the western fire. 
Then, quenched at last, their hunger and 

desire, 
Our hearts shall ask no other boon but sleep 
Under thy shamrocks, nor shall vigil keep, 
Finding night sweet within the soft, still bed, 
While gold and glad the day goes byo'erhead. 
There is no other land like thee, beloved ! 
No heart that once was thine has ever roved. 
No resting-place we find save thy dear breast ; 
He seeks no other kiss who once had pressed 
The cleft red flower of thy unsmiling mouth. 
In chains thou dost the world's enthroned sur- 
pass; 
For loss of thee, the gold sun of the south 
Lacks light and warmth ; thy yearning exiles 

come 
Like children tired, who turn with tears to 

home. 
And lay them gladly in thy churchyard grass. 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 



TO ERIN. 



My country ! — -too long, like the mist on thy 
mountains. 
The cloud of affliction hath sadden'd thy 
brow ; 
Too long hath the blood-rain empurpled thy 
fountains. 
And Pity been deaf to thy cries — until now. 

Thou wert doom'd for a season in darkness to 
languish. 
While others around thee were basking in 
light; 
Scarce a sunbeam e'er lighten'd the gloom of 
thy anguish — 
In the " Island of Saints " it seem'd still to 
be night. 

Of thy children, alas ! some in sorrow forsook 
thee. 
They could not endure to behold thee dis- 
tress'd ; 
In ■■ the land of the stranger " did others 
o'erlook thee. 
Unworthy the life-stream they drew from 
thy breast. 

And the song of the minstrel was hushed in 
thy bowers ; 
For Discord's dire trump thy lov'd harp was 
thrown by ; 
While, strong as the ivy that strangled thy 
towers, 
The gripe of oppression scarce left thee a 
sigh! 

That is past — and for aye let its memory 
perish ; 
The day-spring arises, while weariness 
ends ; 
Wake, Erin! forbear thy dark bodings to 
cherish — 
The wheel hath revolv'd and thy fortune 
ascends! 

Yes, thy cause hath been heard — men have 
wept at thy story. 
Alas! that a land of such beauty should 
mourn ! 
Have thy children ne'ergrac'd the high niches 
of glory ? 
Was kindness ne'er known in their bosoms 
to burn ? 



394 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Yes, rich as the mines which thy teeming hills 
nourisli. 
Are their stores of the genius which nature 

thy valleys that 
flourish, 
The fragrance of feeling that breathes from 
their hearts ! 



That, when Britons stood forth in my trial 
undaunted, 
My children slunk back unconcerned in my 
weal. 

last spark yc 



'Oh, if yet in your bosom ( 
treasure 
Of love for the land of your sires— of your 
birth— 
When stung to despair, in their wildness what Return I and indulge in the soul-thrilling 



wonder 



pleasure 



If sometimes their souls from affection Of hailing that land "mong the brightest on 



might rove? 
That frenzy subsiding, their feelings the 
fonder 
Will seek theirown halcvon channel of love! ' 



THOMA.S DKVIN RKILLV. 



Let the past be forgotten I Yet shall thou, 
fair Erin. 



LINES TO ERIN. 



Fling off the base spells which thy spirit When dullness shall chain the wild harp that 

would praise thee, 
disap- When its last sigh of freedom is heard on 
thy shore. 



enslave ; 
Thou shalt, like the sea-bird, a whi 
pcaring. 

Emerge witli thy plumage more bright from When its raptures shall bless the false heart 
the wave. that betrays thee. 

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee 
Once more "mong the verdure and dew of thy more! 



mountains 
The shamrock shall ope its wet 
sun. 



to the When thy sons are less tame than their own 
ocean waters. 



While fondly the muse shall recline by thy When their last flash of wit and of genius is 
fountains, o'er. 

And warble her strains to the rills as they When beauty and virtue forsake thy young 

daughters. 



Then tuning thy mild harp, whose melody 
slumbers, i 

As high on the willow it waves in the When the 
breeze ; 
Let poesy lend thee her liveliest numbers. 
To sound thy reveille, thy anthem of praise. 



Oh, then, dearest Erin. I'll love thee 
more ! 



And say unto those that have left thee for- 
saken — 
"Return, oh. return, to your lone mother's 
arms ! 
Other lands in their sons 
awaken ; 
Shall Erin alone for her race hav 
charms .' 



that now holds his bright path 
o'er thy mountains. 
Forgets the green fields that he smiL-d on 
before. 

When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes 
and thy fountains. 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no 
more ! 



'Oh, blush as ye rove, that it e'er should be 
taunted. 
That strangers have felt what my own could 
not feel ; 



n a fondness When the name of the Sa.xon and tyrant shall 
sever. 
When the freedom you lost you no longer 
deplore. 
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be 
sleeping forever, 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no 
more ! 

JAMES J. CALLANAN. 



OH, ERIN! SWEET ERIN! 



395 



CUSHLA-MA-CHREE. 



Uear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises. 

An emerald set in the ring of the sea, | 

Each blade of thy meadows thy faithful heart 

prizes. 

Thou queen of the west, the world's ctishla- \ 

ma-chree. 

Thy gates open wide to the poor and the 
stranger. 
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free ; 
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of 
danger, 
And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla- 
ma-chree. 



Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once 
over, 
In brotherly peace with their foes they 
agree. 
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters dis- 
cover 
The soul-speaking flush that says, cushla- 
ma-c/irei. 

Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin, 
While sadly I wander an exile from thee. 
And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing. 
May Heaven defend its own cushla-ma- 
chree. 

JOHN PHILl'or CURRAX. 



SONS OF HAPLESS ERIN.* 
Weep, sons of Hapless Erin, weep; 
Your chains in tears of anguish steep; 
And as you bend the streaming eye. 
Where pale and plundered brethren lie. 
On Albion's head no blessings breathe — 
She's tinged with blood the victor wreath I 

Lol where the famished peasant lies; — 
No more with freedom flash his eyes; 
No more the smiling pleasures steal 
From heaven, to bless his temp'rate meal ; 
Even hospitality no more 
Courts the tired stranger to the door 

Wisdom, indignant, flies the land 
Where folly plants her venal band 
Gay humor drops the beamy dart 
All powerless on corruption's heart ; 



tb 



' The Catholics of Ireland ' 



And, veiled in shame's most sullen hues. 
Fair honor follows with the Muse. 

Sweet country, shall I never hear — 
Best music to the patriot's car — 
The ploughman's carol, as he wakes 
The small larks from the russet brakes.' 
Or twilight, as it creeps along. 
Made lovely by his evening song. 

For ah ! without the laborer's toil 

(So much despised — the courtier's spoil !) 

Without the soft arts that refine 

The soul, and knit in bonds divine, 

The vacant boast, the armed train. 

Or all that tyrants grant -are vain ! 

The speeding sail that oft of yore 
Commercial wealth and jjlenty bore. 
Droops in the gale ;— some IJriti.^h god 
Has barred the ocean's open road, 
In cruel, cold, unpitying jest 
Saying, Thou be wretched ! / am blest ! 

Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep ; 
Your chains in tears of anguish steep ; 
And as you bend the beaming eye. 
Where pale and plundered brethren lie 
On Albion's head no blessing breathe,— 
With blood she's tinged the victor wreath ! 
THOMAS DERMODY. 



OH, ERIN ! SWEET ERIN 1 
Oh, Erin ! sweet Erin! thy strains 

To the heart-broken exile are dear ; 
And each note in its sweetness remains 

Long, long on the listening car. 
But even when those sounds should be gay. 

Such sorrow is mixed with their tone, 
.And each note melts so slowly away. 

That our hearts feel their sadness alone. 

Oh, 'tis thus when life's sunshine is o'er 
-And its visions in darkness are hid. 

When the friends of our youth are no more. 
I .\x\<.\ our hearts cease to beat as they did, 

A sound will bring back thoughts that pass. 
Like a shadow on all that is glad 

We may laugh, if we will — but alas! 
E'en the sound of our laughter is sad, 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



396 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



A VISION OF EIRE. 
Once in a vision grand. 
We saw, above this Land, 

Its bright, eternal genius rise. 

With ever)' gift endowed. 
But robed in stormy cloud. 

And girt about by various destinies. 
O'er her. from foam to foam, 
\ rainbow arched its dome ; 

Clouds swept her throne of sunshine, thunder. 



Her mountains green and hoar. 
Her wave-wild coasU. rivers and grassy plains. 
Behind her lay the past— a mighty sea 
Of splendor and of shadow, phantom-thronged 
With figures who her state had raised or 
wronged. 
Saviour and enemy ; 
And in the space of day. 
Remote in vapors gray, 
The Future into golden being rising o'er the 
spray. 

Lo ! from that Past there came 
Figures of fate and fame. 
Warrior and minstrel, poet, saint, and sage. 
Who with her foes had fought. 
Who with their harps had caught 
And echoed Pagan glories, many an age ; 
Who changed her hosts of death 
Inspired by Love's bright Faith, 
Baptizing thereunto Barbarity ; 

Who sailed within the bark 

Of letters, when thick dark 

And deluge reigned around, and saved us 

H istory. 
And toward the van of that cloud-crossed 

array. 
Still richer in the front of temperate time. 
Heroes of mind and action more sublime, 
Chiefs of an ampler day- 
Spirits whose thoughts and deeds. 
For universal needs, [feeds. 

Are omnipresent now wherever life or spirit 

Then, as we gazed upon 
That Future, where the sun 

Now lifts through .\pril mists his rim of fire, 
O'ergoldening a great 
Island, whose summer gate 

Glows with the riches which all states desire— 
We looked where Europe spread, 
And past the ocean's bed. 



Westward and South, saw mighty realms in- 
crease. 
Both cradles of new life, 
Franchised from histor>''s strife, 
Armed with all powers, yet emulous of peace ; 
And looking past the present's shade and 

strife. 
RoUmg o'er thrones and hosU. surveyed afar 
Human communities erasing War 
Out of their book of life ; 
And civilization free. 
Based upon industry. 
Become the symbol of mankind's federative 
empiry. 

Nor was it man alone 
Whose brain essayed to tone 
Time's widening harmonies that heavenward 
run ; 
But his bright counterpart. 
Life's nurse and holy heart. 
Who raised earth's anthem soaring to the sun. 
Woman — as slave too long 
Accounted by the strong. 
Or. even in years less barbarous, little more 
Than child — matured now. 
Raised her meridian brow. 
As potent, if more soft, from shore to shore ; 
Emancipated from the ignorant chains of old, 
And o'er Intelligence enthroning Love. 
Her guiding influence was seen to move 
"Through stormless climes of gold, 
Progress ! thy bark, whose course. 
By revolution's force, 
So often has been wrecked by man 'mid rocks 
and billows hoarse. 

Then, like the orbs that roll 
Through space, from pole to pole. 

Crowned with their rights, the Peoples, great 
and small. 
Moved through the age. intent 
On rich development. 

The spiritual gravity of Justice swaying all; 
Faith, love, truth, happiness. 
Sources and ends which bless 

Each home and nation, and inspire theirsong; 
And for the races here. 
And the soul's future sphere, 

Consecrating present effort passed thro' time 
along : 

Till human lives, expunged of stain and flaw, 

Endowed in every zone with liberty. 

Perfectest freedom, governed only by 



ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. ^^y 


The double bonds of law, 


ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. 


Moved brightly through the skies 


The long-long wished for hour has come, 


Toward vaster destinies — 


But come, asthore, in vain, 


Above them, God, and in the distance, heav- 


And left thee but the wailing hum 


en's infinity. 


Of sorrow and of pain ; 


Then thought we ; when all those 
Nations, no longer foes, 
• In federative families consulted what was best 


My light of life, my only love. 


Thy portion sure must be 


Man's scorn below, God's wrath above — 


For Being, ever^'where ; 


Acushlagal machree. 


Our Genius, strong and fair, [West, 


'Twas told of thee the world around. 


Stretched forth a hand to Europe and the 


'Twas hoped for thee by all, 
That with one gallant sunward bound 


To make this Earth's wide home 


One true, bright Christendom ; 


'Thou'd burst long ages' thrall ; 
Thy fate was tried, alas ! and those 


Conjoining powers to harmonize all strife 


And foster every mood 


Who perilled all for thee 


Of the Useful and the Good, 


Were cursed and branded as thy foes, 
Acushlagal machn-L: 


To beautify the deepening Poem of Life. 


Then saw we, energized and glorified, 


Eire, thy Genius, and a fresh life spring 


What fate is thine, unhappy isle. 


And flourish bounteous 'mid the isle's green 


That e'en the trusted few 


ring. 


Should pay thee back with fraud and guile 


And spread its influence wide. 


When most they should be true .' 


Till field and shore and mart, 


'Twas not thy strength or.courage failed 


Throbbed with her living heart, 


Nor those whose souls were free ; 


And golden Commerce robed her, while she 


By moral force wert thou betrayed. 


crowned her brows with Art. 


Acttshla gal niachrce. 


THOMAS C. IRWIN'. 






I've given thee my youth and prime. 




And manhood's waning years; 




I've blest thee in thy sunniest time. 


ANDROMEDA. 


And shed for thee my tears ; 
And mother, tho' thou'st cast away 


They chained her fair young body to the cold 


The child who'd die for thee. 


and cruel stone : 


My fondest wish is still to pray 


The beast begot by sea and slime had marked 


For aishla gal machree . 


her for his own ; 




The callous world beheld the wrong, and left 


I've tracked for thee the mountain sides 


her there alone. 


And slept within the brake. 


Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen 


More lonely than the swan that glides 


who denied her. 


On Lua's fairy lake ; 


Ye left her there alone ! 


The rich have spurned me from their door 




Because I'd set thee free. 


My beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and 


Yet do I love thee more and more — 


thy pain : 


Acushla gal machree. 


The night that hath no morrow was brooding 




on the main ; 


I've run the outlaw's bold career. 


But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee 


And borne his load of ill. 


again. 


His troubled rest and waking fear 


'Tis Perseus' sword aflaming, thy dawn of day 


With fixed, sustaining will ; 


proclaiming. 


And should his last dread chance befall, 


Across the western main. 


E'en that should welcome be. 


Ireland, my Country ! he comes to break 


In Death, I'll love thee more than all— 


thy chain. 


Acushlagal machree. 


JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 


MICHAEL DOHENY. 



398 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



DEAR LAND. 
When comes the day all hearts to weigh. 

If staunch they be or vile. 
Shall we forget the sacred debt 

We owe our mother isle ? 
My native heath is brown beneath. 

My native waters blue ; 
But crimson red o'er both shall spread. 
Ere 1 am false to you. 

Dear land, 
Ere I am false to you. 

When I behold your mountains bold. 

Your noble lakes and streams, 
A mingled tide of grief and pride 

Within my bosom teems. 
I think of all — your long, dark thrall. 

Your martyrs brave and true ; 
And dash apart the tears that start — 

We must not ■weep for you, 

Dear land, 
We must not weep for you. 

My grandsire died his home beside, 

They seized and hanged him there ; 
His only crime, in evil time. 

Your hallowed green to wear. 
Across the main his brothers twain 

Were sent to pine and rue ; 
And still they turn'd, with hearts that burned 

In hopeless love to you. 

Dear land. 
In hopeless love to you. 

My boyish ear still clung to hear 

Of Erin's pride of yore. 
Ere Norman foot had dared pollute 

Her independent shore ; 
Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head 

Some gallant patriot few. 
Till all my aim on earth became 

To strike one blow for you. 

Dear land, 
To strike one blow for you. 

What path is best your rights to wrest 

Let other heads divine ; 
By work or word, witli \oice or sword. 

To follow them be mine. 
The breast that zeal and hatred steel 

No terrors can subdue ; 
If death should come, that martyrdom 
Were sweet, endured for you, 

Dear land. 
Were sweet, endured for you. 

JOHN o'hagan. 



TO THE HOME OF MY FATHERS. 
; Does Freedom still breathe in the bard's rustic 
number.' 
Can his harp, by the Genius of Liberty 
strung. 
Be mute, while the land where his forefathers 
slumber 
Is bleeding in bondage and bleeding unsung.' 

Is no Washington near thee, thou captive of 
ages. 
To marshal thy bra\e ones and lead them 
to war .' 
Is no Franklin arrayed in the list of thy sages.' 
In that of thy heroes, no young Bolivar? 

Thy sons must forsake thee if worth bids 
them cherish 
A hope on the records of glory to shine. 
Does not Wellington reign .' Had not Emmet 
to parish .' 
The laurel is England's, the cypress is thine I 

But weep not, poor Erin ; though Emmet is 

wanting, [brave ; 

His spirit still lives in the hearts of thy 

There are bosoms behind as devotedly p>anting 

For the breath of the free or the boon of 

the grave. 

.\nd hope tells my heart that a day will be 
given 
When the chain shall be loosed and their 
sorrows redressed ; 
When thou shalt go forth in the pride of thy 
eve... 
As free as the zephyr that sports on thy 
breast. 

Oh. then shall thy harp, which has slumbered 



Feel the pulse of fair Freedom, that erst 

made it thrill ; 
Then the bard shall awake it in accents of 

gladness. 
And sweep its wild chords on thy ever-green 

hill. 

And oh, when the last scene of nature is 
closing. 
When this spirit of mine shall burst forth 
and be free. 
How calm could I rest, on thy bosom reposing. 
Thou home of my fathers. Green Isle of the 
Sea! 

JOHN HUGHES. 



THE OLD LAND. 



399 



OH ! IRELAND, MY COUNTRY. 
Oh ! Ireland, my countrj', the hour 

Of thy pride and thy splendor hath pass'd ; 
And the chain that was spurned in the mo- 
ment of pow'r, 
Hangs heav)' around thee at last. 
There are marks in the fate of each clime ; 
There are turns in the fortunes of men ; 
But the changes of realms, or the chances of 
time, 
Can never restore thee again. 

Thou art chain'd to the wheel of the foe. 

By links which the world shall not sever ; 
With thy tyrant, thro' storm and thro' calm 
thou Shalt go. 

And thy sentence is bondage forever. 
Thou art doom'd for the thankless to toil ; 

Thou art left for the proud to disdain ; 
And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of 
thy soil 

Shall be wasted, and wasted in vain. 

Thy riches with taunts shall be taken. 

"Thy valor with coldness repaid ; 
And of millions who see thee thus sunk and 
forsaken, 

Not one shall stand forth in thine aid. 
In the nations thy place is left void ; 

Thou art lost in the list of the free ; 
Even realms by the plague or the earthquake 
destroy 'd 

May revive — but no hope is for thee. 

THOMA.S FURLONG. 



OUR OWN LAND. 
Though lands may be, beyond the sea, 
More blest than thee, our Island mother, 
'Tis thine alone our hearts to own. 
Which ne'er have flown, or loved another. 
Where'er we stray, though bleak the way. 
Or dark the day is round us closing. 
We sadly turn, with hearts that burn. 
To be upon thy breast reposing. 

Our own land, our own land. 
The bold, the brave and old land ; 
On earth there's not a greener spot, 
Nor brighter than our own land. 

They laud the Rhine in song divine, 
And pledge in wine the rolling river ; 
And hymn its praise in glorious lays, 
Which, like its waves, roll on forever. 



But can the Rhine in beauty shine, 
Can stream or tide that ever ran on, 
Compare with thee, bright rolling Lee, 
Or match the graceful bounding Shannon ? 
Our own lar.d, our own land. 
The bold, the brave and old land ; 
On earth there's not a greener spot, 
Nor brighter than our own land. 

The streams that run, kissed by the sun. 
Past rath and dun, by vale and highland, 
In beauty glide, outspreading wide. 
And grace with pride our grand old island. 
Amid the foam she stands alone. 
The loveliest one that gems the ocean, 
And hearts are found the wide world round 
Who bend to her with true devotion. 
Our own land, our own land. 
The bold, the brave and old land ; 
On eaith there's not a greener spot. 
Nor brighter than our own land. 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 



THE OLD LAND. 
Ah, kindly and sweet, we must love thee per- 
force I 
The disloyal, the coward alone would not 
love thee : 
Ah, mother of heroes ! strong mother ! soft 
nurse ! 
We are thine while the large clouds swim 
onward above thee. 
By thy hills ever blue that draw heaven so near; 
By thy cliffs, by thy lakes, by thine ocean- 
lulled highlands ; 
And more — by thy records disastrous and dear. 
The shrines on thy headlands, the cells in 
thine islands ! 
Ah, well sings the thrush by Li.xnau and 
Traigh-li ! 
Ah, well breaks the wave upon Umbhall and 
Bandon ! 
Thy breeze o'er the upland blows clement and 
free. 
And o'er fields, once his own, which the hind 
must abandon. 
A caitiff the noble who draws from thy plains 
His all, yet reveres not the source of his 
greatness ; 
A clown and a serf, 'mid his boundless domains 
His spirit consumes in the prison of his 
straightness ! 



400 



POEMS OF PATKIOTJSM. 



Through the cloud of its pathos thy face is 
more fair: 
In old time thou wen sun-clad: the gold 
robe thou worest ! i 

To thee the heart turns as the deer to her lair. I 
Ere she dies — her first bed in the gloom of 
the forest. | 

Our glory, our sorrow, our mother! Thy God 
In thy worst dereliction forsook but to prove ; 
thee : — ' 

Blind, blind as the blind worm ; cold, cold as 
the clod, 
Who, seeing thee, see not. — possess but not | 
love thee ! 

AfUREY 1 . UE VERE. 



OUR FAITH-OUR FATHERLAND. 
Ireland, that sittest by the shores of Time — 

Watching the nations' sunrise — on thy lij>s 
Hovers the gospel of a faith sublime. 

Conserved through blight and blast and foul 
eclipse. 
Great, glorious mother 1 when the awful night 

Brooded o'er Europe with portentous ills. 
Thy brow was lifted to the morning light — 

Thy lamp was shining on eternal hills. 

Forth rang the clarion voice, and at its cal. 

The bhnded peoples gathered to thy feet; 
From the remotest East to savage Gaul 

The tramp of pilgrims thro' the midnight 
beat. 
And they beheld thee crowned upon the sea — 

A perfect Paradise of perfect bloom— 
The Pharos of the West, whose brilliancy 

Blazed like a star amid the ocean gloom. 

Then close beside the spectral pillar-tower 

The holy shrines were builded unto God ; 
Thy soul expanded into fruit and flower, 

Inheritance of peace blessed each abode , 
And from the morning watches till the sun 

Sank in Hy Brasil, firing the vast dome. 
Up swelled the myriad-voiced, sweet orison 

From the green altar burning on the foam. 

There was a clash of weapons in the air — 
Ruin of peace and seasonable good ; 

And. flanked by gallant natures, everywhere 
The green flag staggered over fields of blood. 



The Norman steed was stabled in thy fanes. 

The Norman bugles rang upon the heath ; j 
Thy children bared their hearts and spurned ' 
their chains, 
And sealed their glorious constancy in i 
death. 

Yes, Liberty was lost — her cause betrayed — 
j Stabbed in Christ's presence by unholy 
' hands : 

Through the gray ages the remorseless blade 
Hewed down the bravest of thy valiant 
I bands. 

But where the Cross was lifted, at the sign j 

The baffled multitudes resistless rose. | 

Swept the long war-plains in unbroken line, ' 

And dealt the debt of vengeance on thy foes. 

O holy faith — God's best inheritance ! 

Bulwarked by thee, our Mother need not 
fear; 
O'Donnell loved thee when his eagle glance 
Was muffled in death's blinding atmos- 
phere ; 
And the great chieftain of Blackwater heard 
Thy voice, when, broken with the ills of 
years. 
In mighty Rome he broke his conquered 
sword. 
And clasped thy Cross in penitence and 
tears. 

■Our Faith— Our Fatherland!" Our God— 
Our Race ! 
If rise — as rise we must — erect and free, 
That battle-cry must pierce the fighting-space 
From shore to utmost shore — from sea to 
sea. 
When the vile power that gripes us shall be 
smote. 
Wherever havoc rolls and blood is spilt. 
That cry must thunder from the cannon's 
throat — 
The Cross must glitter on the falchion's hilt. 

Ireland, bright Motherland, where'er the day 

Sinks or uproars around this reeling earth. 
Thy children multiply, or, dying gray. 

Breathe thy dear name beside a foreign 
hearth. 
In Babylon no willow bears their lyres; 

'Tis theirs to toil, to sweat, to civilize, — 
To guard the flames of consecrated fires. 

And wait the omens looming through the 
skies. 



.XOr DEAD. 



401 



And wheresoe'er the empire's morning drum 

Beats through the sunrise, million hearts 
awake 
To call thee Mother — Inspiration — Home — 

All holy names that sanctity can take. 
Lean 'gainst the Cross, and keep thy torch 
alight; 

The past behind is drear and desolate, 
But thine eyes keep a revelation bright — 

The golden future destined for thy fate. 

JOHN F. o'DONNELL. 



SONGS OF OUR LAND. 
Songs of our land, ye are with us forever ; 
The power and the splendor of thrones pass 
away, 
But yours is the might of some far flowing 
river, 
Through summer's bright roses or autumn's 
decay. 
Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing ages. 
And truth, which time writeth on leaves or 
on sand ; 
Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and 
sages. 
And keep them among us, old songs of our 
land. 

The bards may go down to the place of their 
slumbers. 
The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the 
grave. 
But far in the future the power of their num- 
bers 
Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and 
brave. 
It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, 
Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze 
fanned ; 
It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only 
Her breathings are heard in the songs of 
our land. 

For they keep a record of those, the true- 
hearted. 
Who fell with the cause they had vowed to 
maintain; 
They show us bright shadows of glory departed. 
Of the love that grew cold, and the hope 
that was vain ; 
The page may be lost and the pen long for- 
saken. 



And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave 

heart and hand ; 
But ye are still left when all else hath been 

taken. 
Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of 

our land. 

Songs of our land, ye have followed the 
stranger. 
With power over ocean and desert afar; 
Ye have gone with our wanderers through 
distance and danger, 
And gladdened their path like a home- 
guiding star ; 
With the breath of our mountains in summers 
ong vanished, 
And visions that passed like a wave from 
our strand. 
With hope for their country and joy from her 
banished. 
Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. 

The spring-time may come with the song of 
her glory, 
To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice ; 
But the pine of the mountain, though blasted 
and hoary. 
And rock in the desert, can send forth a 
voice. 
It is thus in their triumph for deep desola- 
tions. 
While ocean waves roll or the mountains 
shall stand. 
Still hearts that are bravest and best of the 
nations, 
Shall glory and live in the songs of our 
land. 

FRANCES BROWN. 



NOT DEAD. 
Not death, nor sleep, nor yet the hectic flush- 
ing 
Of one whose hours are closing with the 
day, — 
Not the cold pallor, the reluctant eyelids. 
The hair, once golden, dashed with ashen 
gray. 
Are thine, dear Island ; but the calm suspen- 
sion, [drawn, 
From the deep, vital fount of suffering 
Of passion, progress, effort, and achievement. 
Thro' the night agony that moves toward 
dawn. 



402 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



How have they painted thee? A haggard 
beauty. 

One pearly elbow o'er a rent harp cast. 
Eyes tear-d iff used with multitudes of sorrows, 

And hair blown backward by the shrieking 
blast. 
The hills encircle thee, the sea's before thee ; 

And on the yeasty billows' shaking rim. 
Sole hope of thine, and of thy generations. 

One melancholy star shines low and dim. 

I have beheld thee, O transcendant vision ! 

A greater glor)' rounded thy estate. 
Thine were not then the weeds of woman's 
sorrow, 
Nor the quenched lamp outside the thrice- 
barred gate : 
The Summer kindled in thy radiant tresses. 
The passion-flowers were heaped upon thy 
lap. 
Thy left hand held the shield, thy right the 
sabre. 
And on thy temples sat the Phrygian Cap. 

A lovely majesty, a form immortal ! 

Grace in thy silence, music in thy step ! 
The ever vernal youth beneath thine eyelids, 
Fresh blood and beauty on thy high-curved 
lip. 
The clear, chill air grew golden to thy move- 
ment, 
The columned aisles of oaks bowed to thine 
head. 
And, maiden as thou art. the fiinten moun- 
tains 
Shook, as a god had moved them, to thy 
tread. 

Ah, the wild background ! for there loomed 
behind thee 

The spectral shadow of the land that was— 
Heaped ruin, chaos piled on tumbled chaos. 

The giant fragments of a beaten cause ; 
But not thy raiise — the cause of thine oppressor 

His temples' depths lay baking in the sun. 
The owls were harvesting within his prisons; 

For thou hadst conquered, and his race was 
run. 

The painful vigil, the sublime persistence- 
Prayers, tears, and sufferings — had wrought 
their end ; 
Thou stoodst a victor crowned among the 
nations. 
Angel of Peace, but armed to defend. 



The banner of our Race flew on the oceans. 
No more the trampled ensign of the Past ; 

Dense legions poured along the swollen high- 
ways. 
Or where the cities rose erect and vast. 

And from the People's hearts one thunderous 
pasan 
Gathered and rolled along the skirts of 
night: 
" Praise to our God, whose arm hath slain 
oppression. 
And given the battle to dishonored Right." 
O waiting Ireland, 'twas thy shining future ! 
What recks it that thy past was foul and red. 
When, on the calm and fullness of faiition. 
Heaven shall proclaim to Earth : — Thou art 
not dead .' 

JOHN F. O'DONNELL. 



POST-MORTEM. 
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my countn'I 

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory ? i 

Or shall the darkness close around them, ere 
the sun -blaze 
Break at last ufwn thy story .' 

When the nations ope for thee their queenly 
circle. 
As a sweet, new sister hail thee. 
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and 
silence. 
That have known but to bewail thee .-' 

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy 

praises. 

When all men their tribute bring thee.' 

Shall the mouth be clay, that sang thee in thy 

squalor. 

When all poets' mouths shall sing thee.^ 

.\h ! the harpings and the salvos and the 
shoutings 
Of thy e.viled sons returning! 
I should hear, though dead and mouldered, 
and the grave-damps 
Should not chill my bosom's burning. 

.Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should 
hear them 
'Mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
.■\nd my heart should toss within the shroud 
and quiver. 
As a captive dreamer tosses. 



A/]- GKAVE. 



403 



I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round 
Giant-sinews I should borrow, [me, 

Crying, " O my brothers, I have also loved her. 
In her lowliness and sorrow. 

" Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 
Let me chant with you her story ; [rocks, 

Then contented I shall go back to the sham- 
Now mine eyes have seen her glory." 

FAXNY PARNELL. 



THE INTERCESSION. 
lUsUr, A. D, 1 64 1. 

Iriel, the priest, arose and said, 

" The just cause never shall gain by wrong ! 
The ill cause battens on blood ill shed ; 

'Tis Virtue only makes justice strong. 

" I have hidden the Saxon's wife and child 
Beneath the altar ; behind the porch ; 

O'er them that believe not these hands have 
piled 
The stoles and vestments of Holy Church ! 

" I have hid three men in a hollow oak ; 

I have hid three maids in an ocean cave :" 
As though he were lord of the thunder stroke. 

The old priest lifted his hand — to save. 

But the people loved not the words he spake ; 
And their face was changed, for their heart 
was sore : 
They answered not, but their brows grew 
black. 
And the hoarse halls roar'd like a torrent's 
roar 

" Has the stranger robbed you of house and 
land ? 
In battle meet him and smite him down ! 
Has he sharpen'd the dagger.' Lift ye the 
brand ! 
Has he trapped your princes.' Set free the 
clown ! 

" Has the' stranger his country and knight- 
hood shamed ? 
Though he 'scape God's vengeance, so shall 
not ye ! 
His own God chastens. Be never named 
With the Mullaghmast slaughter. Be just 
and free !" 



But the people received not the words he 

spake, [sore ; 

For the wrong on their heart had made it 

1 And their brows grew black like the stormy 

rack. 

And the hoarse hall roar'd like the wave- 

wash'd shore. 

Then Iriel the priest put forth a curse ; 

And horror crept o'er them from vein to 
vein, — 
A curse upon man and a curse upon horse, 

As forth they rode to the battle plain. 

And there never came to them luck nor grace, 
No saint in the battle-field helped them 
more. 

Till O'Neill, who hated the warfare base. 
Had landed at Doe on Tyrconnell shore. 

True Knight, true Christian, true Prince was 
he! 

He lived for Erin ; for Erin died ; [ free. 
Had Charles proved true and the faith set 

O'Neill had triumphed at Charles' side. 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



MY GRAVE, 
Shall they bury me in the deep. 
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep.' 
Shall they dig a grave for me 
Lender the green-wood tree .' 
Or on the wild heath. 
Where the wilder breath 
Of the storm doth blow ? 
O, no ! O, no ! 

Shall they bury me in the Palace tombs. 
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes? 
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; 
Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love 

it more. 
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find .' 
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing 

wind .' 
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound. 
Where coflSnless thousands lie under the 

ground? 
Just as they fall they are buried so — 
O, no! O, no! 

No ! on an Irish green hill-side. 

On an opening lawn — but not too wide! 



404 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



For I love the drip of the wetted trees— 
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, 
To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there. 
But green sods deck'd with daisies fair, 
Nor sods too deep ; but so that the dew. 
The matted grass-roots may trickle through. 
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, 
'• Heser\'ed his country, and loved his kind " — 

O ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go. 
If one were sure to be buried so. 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



Woe and pain, pain and woe. 
Are my lot, night and noon. 
To see your bright face clouded so. 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone. 
My Dark Rosalecn ! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 



DARK ROSALEEN. 
O! my Dark Rosaleen. 

Do not sigh, do not weep, 
The priests are on the ocean green. 

They march along the deep. 
There's wine from the royal Pope 

Upon the ocean green. 
And Spanish ales shall give you hope, 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Rosaleen ! — 
Shall glad your heart and give you hope. 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over hills, and through dales. 

Have I roamed for your sake , 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne, at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen. 
For there was lightning in my blood, 
My Dark Rosaleen! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
Oh! there was lightning in my blood. 
Red lightning lightened through my blood. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest. 

To and fro, do I move. 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, lo\ e ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 
To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Rosaleen! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints. 
My Dark Rosaleen' 



Over dews, over sands. 

Will I fly, for your weal : 
■your holy delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home in your emerald bowers. 
From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me. my flower of flowers. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 
My fond Rosaleen ! 
You'll think of me through daylight's hours. 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

1 could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills. 
Oh. I could kneel all night in prayer. 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 
Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 
My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Oh ! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood. 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread. 

And flames wrap hill and wood. 
And gun-peal and slogan cry 
Wake many a glen serene. 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die. 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 
My own Rosaleen ! 
The judgment hour must first be nigh. 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die. 
My Dark Rosaleen I 

JAMKS CLARENCE MANGAN, 
/>-(>«/ the Irish Elisahethan Era. 



Sr. COLUMBA AND THE STORK. 



405 



REMONSTRANCE. 
Bless the dear old verdant land. 

Brother, wert thou born of it ? 
As thy shadow life doth stand, 
Twining round its rosy band, 
Did an Irish mother's hand 

Guide thee in the morn of it? 
Did thy father's soft command 

Teach thee hate or scorn of it ? 

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast. 
Dost thou feel a glow for it ? 

Thou, of all its charms possess'd 

Living on its first and best, 

Art thou but a thankless guest. 
Or a traitor foe for it ? 

If thou lovest, where the test 

Would'st thou strike a blow for it ? 

Has the past no goading sting 
That can make thee rouse for it ? 

Does thy land's reviving spring. 

Full of buds and blossoming, 

Fail to make thy cold heart cling. 
Breathing lover's vows for it? 

With the circling ocean's ring 
Thou wert made a spouse for it ! 

Hast thou kept, as thou should'st keep. 

Thy affection warm for it ? 
Letting no cold feeling creep. 
Like the ice breath, o'er the deep. 
Freezing to a stony sleep 

Hopes the heart would form for it — 
Glories that like rambows weep 

Through the darkening storm for it? 

What we seek is Nature's right- 
Freedom and the aids of it ;— 
Freedom for the mind's strong flight. 
Seeking glorious shapes star-bright 
Through the world's intensest night, 

AVhen the sunshine fades of it ! 
Truth is one, and so is light. 
Yet how many shades of it ! 

A mirror every heart doth wear, 

For heavenly shapes to shine in it ; 
If dim the glass or dark the air. 
That Truth, the beautiful and fair, 
God's glorious image, shines not there, 

Or shines with naught divine in it: 
A sightless lion in its lair. 

The darkened soul must pine in it ! 



Son of this old, down-trodden land, 

Then aid us in the fight for it ; 
We seek to make it great and grand, 
Its shipless bays, its naked strand, 
By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. 

Oh ! what a glorious sight for it ! 
The past expiring like a brand. 

In morning's rosy light for it! 

Think that this dear old land is thine. 

And thou a traitor slave of it ; 
Think how the Switzer leads his kine. 
When pale the evening star doth shine, 
His song has home in every line, 

Freedom in every stave of it ! 
Think how the German loves his Rhine, 

And worships every wave of it ! 

Our own dear land is bright as theirs. 
But, oh ! our hearts are cold for it ; 

Awake ! we are not slaves, but heirs; 

Our fatherland requires our cares. 

Our work with man, with God our prayers. 
Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, 

Let us do all that honor dares — 
Be earnest, faithful, bold for it ! 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



ST. COLUMBA AND THE STORK. 

The tempest broke over the Isle of lona, 

The seas, roaring, rose in the lightning's 

wild glare : [battle. 

Cloud rushing on cloud, like dark foemen in 

Awoke with their clamor the hush of the air. 

Who walks on the sands, like a monarch un- 

sceptred ? 

The folds of his raiment are heavy with rain ; 

The hood, backward blown from the white 

streaming tresses. 

Reveals the grand face in its pallor and pain 

He turns to the south, he folds tight in his 
mantle 
The sinewy arms on his broad heaving chest ; 
The wonderful eyes in their lustre dilated. 
The lips in their grey-bearded shadows, com- 
press'd. 

What recks he of clouds o'er the heavens 
careering? [scape faints? 

Of seas tossing wild where the dim land- 
Columba, the exile, is gazing on Erin. [Saints ! 

The saint looks afar on the Isle of the 



4o6 



POEMS OF rATRlOTlSM. 



In vain the sharp lightnings strike red on his i Ah ! then the great heart of the patriot mas- 
eye-balls, tered 
In vain the vast torrents descend on his The soul of the saint in Columba's old 
head — breast— 

While the brave Celtic heart thro" yon green He stooped to the sands, caught the bird to 



island wanders. 
The flesh that enshrines it, is dull as the 
dead. 

He sees the sweet valleys, the rills fair as silver. 

The cattle a-field, and the hawthorn in 

bloom ; [Ulster, 

The blue pleasant skies bending over old 
Cluain-iraird, a haven of light and perfume. 

And all the pure mem'ries of boyhood and 
manhood, 
And all the dear dreams of the far away years 



his bosom, 
And cradled it there, like a babe in its rest. 

" Lie close in the arms that enfold thee," he 
whispered. 
While his eyes swam with tears, and his 
chest rose and fell 
With the smothering sobs : — " in the breast ui 
Columba. 
He'll bear thee secure to his own little cell. 

•' And there his scant n)eal shall be thine ; his 
fond fingers 



Sweep back o'er his spirit, like pinions of | Anointing, shall heal the red wound in thy 
angels. I ''■'east : 

The gold of whose garments is darkened And soon thro" the sunshine. O creature of 



with tears. 

Yea, darkened with tears of the bitterest sor- 
row. 
Great drops, as of blood, wrung from peni- 
tent eyes — 
The plains of Westmeath, red and reeking 
with slaughter, 
From the mists of the past gory phantoms, 
arise. 

Once more at monk Manuel's feet he is 
kneeling. 
Once more the dread sentence falls solemn 
and stern : 
" Thy sin has been great ; greater still be thy 
penance. 
— Leave Erin this niglit, ncivr more to 
return!" 

" O God ! " cries the saint. " 'tis Thy will that 1 
worship, 
Lord Christ I make this sacrifice ever more 
sweet I — " 



Heaven ! 

He'll watch thee take wing for the groves of 
the west. 

" Across the dark waters his grey eyes shall 
track thee. 
But ne'er shall his form follow thine to the 
shore ; 
For ///OK canst go back to our dear native Erin — 
But Columba. the exile, returns never- 
more ! " 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 



SELF-RELIANCE. 

' Trust not for frrcdom to the Franks, 
They have a King who buys and sells ; 
In native swords and native ranks 
Your only hope of freedom dwells." 

O would that Ireland's sons would take 

This glorious lesson once to heart ; 
.And from the sleep of bondage wake, 



— And lo! thro' the tempest, wind-batter'd And on the road to freedom start! 

and bleeding. O would at last they Icarn'd to know. 

A stork, like a snow drift, falls faint at his If they would bid the foe defiance, 

feet ! If they would strike a winning blow. 

Their hope and shield is Self-reliance ! 
A speck on the ether — a feather out-wafted 

From Erin's dear coast, it had breasted the In years gone by our fathers tried 

storm , "To break the chain that binds our land, 

Unseen and yet seen in the dream of the seer — The foe that now assails — defied, 

Itsbloodon his feet trickled ruddy and warm. And nobly bared the gleaming brand. 



Rut though they braver were than we, 
And then the foe was less defiant, 

Their struggles ended wretchedly. 

And why ? — they were not Self-reliant. 

Oh, God ! it pains my soul to hear 

That still there live in that green land 
Degenerate sons who quake with fear 

To see their brothers grasp the brand ; 
Who'd rather crawl in servile dust 

Than rise and bid the foe defiance,— 
Who think it sin her chains to burst. 

And sneer and jeer at Self-reliance. 

But onward, sons of Innisfail ! 

The bright and glorious goal is nearing ; 
On mountain top and down the vale. 

Behold hope's rays at last appearing. 
Let cowards mock, let cravens fear ; 

We'll use for Freedom each appliance ; — 
The dawn is here, the skies grow clear. 

If in your heart be Self-reliance ! 

JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 



HOPELESS. 



and the 



Hopeless ! The fields are fair 

flowers begin to blow. 
The birds are learning the songs they lost in 

the nights of the frost and snow ; 
Don't you see the trees, when they hear the 

breeze rushing on in the front of Spring, 
Have buds to show, to be leaves, you know, 

where the thrushes will love to sing.' 
And here, at our feet, is the leaf of leaves that 

our Saint in the days of old 
Set for a sign that our land is God's, nor made 

to be bought and sold ! 
And look, old mother ! God's own blue isles 

are thronging the skies in crowds. 
Growing and growing from hour to hour in 

face of the angry clouds ! 

Hopeless ! Who cares if a son or two you 

suckled should come to shame ! 
We're better now that our house is clear of 
j the dumb and the blind and lame! 

' The thirty pieces are quick to go, but hurrah 
for your curse, that stays 
Fierce as fate in their tracks for aye to tor- 
ture their nights and days ! 



:le^^. 407 

And so God help your traitor sons. But look 

to your children here 
Who would drain the blood of their hearts in 

drops for the love of you, mother dear — 
Who will live to laugh many days with you 

till their sweet dead brothers call, 
Or, if you must die, will die with you, to 

answer to God for all ! 
Hopeless' Hurrah for the Irish race, that 

holds in its conquering hands 
The nations' strength and the nations' fate 

and the fatness of all the lands ! 
O seas, you worship us well. I know, with the 

wonder of all your waves ! 

shores, you are safe and sacred now with 

the glory of Irish graves ! 
And all the echoes have heard your name — 

will hear it, mother dear. 
Chanted by poets through all the earth with 

the strength of a charging cheer ! 
And the lands are bright with the fiery light 

that shoots from your soldiers' scars ; 
Hopeless ! Hurrah for the Southern Cross ! 

Hurrah for the Stripes and Stars ! 
Hopeless! Ah, do you remember the days 

when your body, all gashed and tore. 
Lay like death through the ghastly night when 

Owen* could strike no more ; 
Hell let loose to trample you down. Heaven 

all blank and bare 
As its face was found, till the stars stood out 

to brighten its blackness there ? 
But God was living— (He lives to-day) — had 

pity on all your pain. 
Sending you sons who were known for kings 

by right of the kingly brain ; 
By right of the kingly presence too; by right 

of the kingly deeds — 
The great grim valor whose eyes are dr)' while 

the heart in its bosom bleeds ! 
Hopeless! Will this be the end of all.' Is God 

to be brought to shame .'' 
He proved you long, is proving you still, in 

the red-hot furnace flame. 
Do you think, old mother, it's all for naught 

that the gold to the furnace goes ? 
That the iron (which holds the steel, yoa 

know) is under the sledge's blows .' 
Does the path of the desert lead no more to 

1 the pleasant Promised Land ? 

Is our God, like Bel, asleep, do you think ? or 
shortened his Holy hand .' 



4o8 



/'OiCAfS OF PATRIOTISM. 



We wait, you know, for our thunder, long: 
we wait (or our lightning leaps ; 

But it comes at last — hurrah ! hurrah ! — from 
the Lord that never sleeps. 

Rise up, old mother ! No grave for you till the 

seas give up their dead : 
We kiss the tears from your cheeks to-day, 

with our hands on your holy head ! 
Perhaps our restless feet would range if your 

checks were fresh and fair. 
But cursed be our hearts if we fail you now, 

when the furrows are deepening there ! 
We ask no more than your right to-day in the 

face of the nations all — 
We call no God but the Justice-God, on whom 

the nations call ! 
But the fields are white and the reapers few, 

and our sickles are here at hand — 
Hopeless I we'll crown you a queen as yet, 

and lady of all the land ! 

J. J. Ml-RPHV, 



And fancy brought old scenes of home into 
j each welling eye, 

1 And through each breast f)our'd many a 
I thought that filled it like a sigh ! 

I 'Twas then — 'twas then, all warm with love, 
j they knelt them down to pray 
I For Irish homes and kith and kin — poor 
exiles, far away I 



THE IRISH EXILES. 
When round the festive Christmas board, or 

by the Christmas hearth. 
That glorious mingled draught is poured — 

wine, melody and mirth ! 
When friends long absent tell, low-toned, 

their joys and sorrows o'er. 
And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and 

lips meet lips once more— 
O in that hour 'twere kindly done, some 

woman's voice would say: 
" Forget not those who 're sad to-night — poor 

exiles far away I" 

Alas, for them ! this morning's sun saw many 

a moist eye pour 
Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste 

Atlantic o'er. 
And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning 

from the west. 
The Indian shores were lined with those who 

watched his couched crest. 
But not to share his glor)-, then, or gladden 

in his ray, [exiles far away I 

They bent their gaze upon his path — those 

It was — oh ! how the heart will cheat I because 

they thought, beyond 
His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of 

which their hearts were fond ; 



And then the mother bless 'd her son, the lover 

bless 'd the maid. 
And then the soldier was a child, and wept 

the while he prayed ; 
And then the student's pallid cheek flushed 

red as summer rose. 
And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep 

for Erm's woes; 
.\nd oh ! but then warm vows were breathed, 

that come what might or may. 
They'd right the suffering isle they loved — 

those exiles, far away! 

.■\nd some there were around the board, like 

loving brothers met. 
The few and fond and joyous hearts that 

never can forget ; 
They pledged : " "The girls we left at home, 

God bless them 1" and they gave 
" The memory of our absent friends, the 

tender and the brave!" 
Then up, erect, with nine times nine — hip — 

hip — hip — hurrah ! 
Drank : " Erin slant/ia gal go bragh /" those 

exiles far away. 

Then, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of 

Irish music rise. 
Like gushing memories of home, beneath far 
j foreign skies ; 

Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the 

trellised vine. 
The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark 

Canadian pine— 
Oh I don't those old familiar tones — so sad. 

and now so gay — [faraway! 

I Speak out your ver)'— very hearts — poor exiles 

But, Heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heed- 
j less of these strains, 

I Tired wanderers ! who sought repose through 
' Europe's battle plains — 

' In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell — as 
j ships go down in storms — 

They fell— and human whirlwinds swept 
across their shattered forms! 



THE EXILES REQUEST. 



409 



No shroud, but glory, wrapped them 'round ; 

nor prt-yer nor tear had they — 
Save the wandering winds and the heavy 

clouds — poor exiles, far away ! 

And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, 
could tell how tost 

Upon the stranger's dreary shore his heart's 
best hopes were lost ; 

How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friend- 
ship greet his ear. 

And pined to walk the river side, to youthful 
musing dear. 

And pined with yearning silent love among 
his own to stay — 

Alas ! it is so sad to be an exile far away! 

Then, O ! when 'round the Christmas board, 

or by the Christmas hearth. 
That glorious mingled draught is poured — 

wine, melody and mirth ! 
When friends long absent tell, low-toned, 

their joys and sorrows o'er, 
And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips 

meet lips once more — 
In that bright hour, perhaps — perhaps, some 

woman's voice would say — 
" Think — think on those who weep to-night, 

poor exiles, far away !" 

MARTIN Rl'DERMOTT. 



IN EXILE. 



" Where dwelleth the mother that bore you ?" 

they questioned of us driven forth 
From the shores of the island market that 

lieth away to the North: 
And we answered. " She dwelleth seaward, in 

the midst of a shrouded sun. 
And the days of her joy are over, and the 

night of her travail begun," 

And they said, " Is she fair, that mother who 

dwells in the seaward home .' " 
And we answered, " Her face is whiter than 

the storm-drifts of bloodless foam. 
And her eyes than the night are deeper, her 

brows are set and drawn. 
And she looks in vain for a token to tell of 

the distant dawn." 
" Hath she, then, gifts for her children, that 

homeward ye turn your eyes. 
Or gold or raiment, or freedom, or wisdom to 

render wise- 



Or song to sing you, or healing, or kisses to 

soothe to sleep — 
Or bread for your lips when ye hunger, or 

shelter when night winds sweep.' " 

" No love songs hath she to soothe us, the 
kiss of her lips is cold, 

Nor hath she bread for the hungry, nor wis- 
dom, nor grapes, nor gold. 

Nor freedom for them that follow, nor heal- 
ing for them that bleed. 

Nor any roof to shelter our heads in the night 
of need. 

" Ye know not, O ye who questioned ! — (for 

how should ye know who dwell 
In the land of your birth ?) — of oin- homeland, 

of the mother of whom we tell ; 
But all we who once beheld her. naught heed 

we the flush of the South — 
No lips for our lips have sweetness who have 

touched her sunless mouth. 

" Lo ! the gifts of her hands are fourfold ; she 

sets in our hearts a flame 
Till the crown of our life's desire is a share of 

our mother's shame ; 
And then shegiveth famine to the lips that cry 

for bread, 
And she giveth tears to the living, and a grave 

to her children's dead." 

And they that questioned made answer: "And 

what, O ye sons ! is her name .' " 
(Ah, how shall we breathe it. O mother ! slave 

mother ! our glory and shame ?) 
And we cried, " In the night it is hidden, but 

when her redemption is won 
The name of her ancient glory shall be 

written upon the sun." 

UNA ASHWORTH TAYLOR. 



THE EXILE'S REQUEST. 
O. Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off 

lands a sign, [once mine ; 

Let it be some token still of the green old land 
A shell from the shores of Ireland wouM be 

dearer far to me, [art of Italie. 

Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 

For I was born in Ireland — I glorj' in the 

name — [fame ! 

I weep forall her sorrows, I remember well her 



410 



POEMS OF PATKIOTISM. 



And still my heart must hope that I may yet 

repose at rest, 
On the Holy Zion of mv youth, in the Israel 

of the West. ' 

Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow ".s 

streaming rains. 
Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's 

ancient chains. 
Yet. Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart 

or eye, [to die. \ 

The Island of the gifted, and of men who knew 

Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is 

bleak and bare, 
But the rigor of its lips still show what fire and 

force was there. 
Even now in the heaving craters, far from the 

gazer's ken, [foes again. 

The fiery steel is forging that will crush her 

Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off 

lands a sign. 
Let it be some token still of the green old land 

once mine : 
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be 

dearer far to me. 
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 
rt of Italic. 

THOMAS DARCY A^GEE. 



THE EXILE. 
spring's sweet odors from the meadow 

Fling their fragrance far and wide, 
And the tall trees cast the shadow 
Of the winter's gloom aside ; 
But for mc no spring is bearing 
Gladness to my heart despairing ; 
Comes no more with soothing power 

Kindly voice, or friendly hand. 

Song of home, or breath of flower. 

From my own dear native land. 

High in Heaven, circling nightly, 

Moon and stars shine overhead ; 
Mighty rivers rush on brightly 
To the ocean's distant bed ; 
But for me, in sorrow pining. 
Star and stream in vain are shining. 
Foreign skies are drear above me. 

By a foreign shore 1 stand. 
Thinking of the friends that love me. 
In my own dear far-off land. 

LADY WILDE. 



THE EXILE TO HIS SON. 
On a shelving clitf by the restless sea. 

An exile sat at the close of day. 
In the great broad land of the brave and free. 

Where starry flags in the breezes play : 
And sad he seemed, and old and weak, 
' Though scarce past life's meridian day; 
I The shade of death was on his cheek. 

His brow was ridged, his locks were gray. 

Low at his feet reclined a boy — 

A blue-eyed boy, with golden hair ; 
The exile's pride and only joy, 

.\nd wise was he. and brave as fair. 
He gazed into his father's face, 

.And mutely dntnk each word he said; 
Like wind-swept cloudlet's shadow-chase, 

L'nconscious flushes came and fled. 

•■ 'Tis thirty years." the old man cried, 

•• -Ay. thirty wear)' years this day. 
Since, leaning o'er the big ship's side, 

I watched loved Erin fade away. 
Oh. didn't she then look bright and grand. 

Dressed in the flowery- robes of May ! 
The bridegroom. Ocean, with his hand, 

Laving her feet in milky spray. 

■• You wonder that I weep, my boy. 

But sure you never saw that land : 
Ah I you know not the wealth of joy 

I buried ere I left its strand 
You'll never know the cherished dreams 

1 nursed alone beside that sea, 
When moonlight beams seemed sabre-gleams. 

And Ocean's voice spoke Liberty. 

" My boy. come swear by yonder star 

That litte has seen my suffering land — 
By all the wrongs that were and are. 

.•Vnd all my country's martyred band- 
By all the torture and the pain 

The tyrant caused that land and me ; 
You'll ever give your strength and brain 

To Erin, till she's ransomed, free !" 

The wind was still, the ocean spoke 
j In murmured whispers on the shore ; 
I The sea-birds scarce an echo woke, 

The crag-tossed streamlet ceased its roar. 
I Up stood the youth before his sire. 

The moon gleamed on his flushing brow. 
I His blue eyes flashed with patriot fire, 
I As slow he spoke his father's vow. 



THE EXILES DREAM. 



Up sprang the old man from his seat, 

And round the youth his arms he flung : 
" Ma bouchal bawn. ne'er may defeat" — 

No other word ere spake his tongue ; 
His arms relaxed — a gasp— a moan ! 

In vain the youth raised up his head ; 
" Oh, father, leave me not alone !" — 

In vain he cried — his sire was dead. 

JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 



THE EXILE'S DREAM. 
I will go to holy Ireland, 

The land of Saint and Sage, 
Where the pulse of boyhood is leaping 

In the shrunken form of age; 
Where the shadow of giant hopes 

For evermore is cast. 
And the wraiths of mighty chieftains 

Are looming through the past. 

From the cold land of the Stranger 

I will take my joyous flight. 
To sit by my slumbering country. 

And watch her through the night ; 
When Spring is in the sky, 

And the flowers are on the land, 
I will go to ancient Ireland, 

Of the open heart and hand. 

I will go where the Galtees 

Are rising bare and high. 
With their haggard foreheads fronting 

The scowl of the clouded sky ; 
I will gaze adown on the valleys, 

And bless the teemmg sod. 
And commune with the mountains — 

" The almoners of God." 

I will list to the murmurous song 

Which is rising from the river. 
That flows crooning to the Ocean 

For ever and for ever. 
When the May-month is come. 

When the year is fresh and young, 
I will go to the home of my fathers — 

The land of sword and song. 

I will go where Killarney 

Is sleeping in peaceful rest. 
Unmoved, save when a falling leaf 

Ripples its placid breast ; 
Where the branches of oak and arbutus 

Are weaving a pleasant screen. 
And the sunshine breaks in diamonds 

Through its tracery of green ; 



Where the mists, like fantastic spectres, 

For ever rise and fall, 
And the rainbow of the Covenant 

Is spanning the mountains tall. 
When the wind blows from the West 

Across the deep Sea, 
I will sail to my Innisfail — 

To the Isle of Destiny. 

1 will go to beautiful Wicklow, 
I The hunted outlaw's rest, 
[ Which the tread of rebel and rapparee 
I In many a struggle prest ; 
I will go to the lonely graveyard. 

Near the pleasant fields of Kildare, 
And pray for my chief and my hero. 
Young Tone, who is sleeping there. 

I will go to the gloomy Thomas street. 

Where gallant Robert died. 
And to the grim St. Michan's, 

Where "the Brothers " lie side by side ; 
I will go to where the heroes 

Of the ancient Celts are laid. 
And chant a Miserere 

For the souls of the mighty Dead. 

I will seize my pilgrim staff. 

And cheerily wander forth 
From the smiling face of the South 

To the black frown of the North ; 
And in some hour of twilight 

I will mount the tall Slieve-Bloom, 
And weave me a picture-vision 

In the evening's pleasant gloom. 

I will call up the buried leaders 

Of the ancient Celtic race. 
And gaze with a filial fondness 

On each sternly-noble face — 
The masters of the mind. 

And the chieftains of the steel, 
Young Carolan and Grattan, 

The M'Caura and O'Neill. 

I will learn from their voices. 

With a student's love and pride, 
To live as they lived. 

And to die as they died. 
O'a ! I will sail from the West, 

And never more will part 
From the ancient home of my people — 

The land of the loving heart. 
I JOSEPH HRE.NAN. 



412 



POEMS OF PATKIOTISM 



A LAY SERMON. 
Ireland, mother of grief and glory. 

Ireland, daughter of sorrow and song. 
Weep no more o'er thy long, sad story. 

Mourn not over the ancient wrong ; 
Tears and sighing and sore complaining 

Bring no balm to the hurt that bleeds : 
Turn thine eyes : they are weak with straining 

Back where the dead dim past recedes. 

Turn thy gaze from the haunted darkness 

Shrouding the graves of the vanished years, 
There lie cerements, and dust, and starkncss 

Ashes and urns and mouldering biers; 
Strength comes never of drear repining. 

Hearts may cherish, but souls must strive ; 
Not in the mists, but where suns are shining. 

Flowers and fruits of the earth best thrive. 

Great are the names that gild thy pages. 

Bright the fame of thy faithful sons: 
Down through the sinuous vales of ages 

Grandly the stream of thy glorj' runs ; 
But, O mother of ancient splendor. 

Nought of this can avail thee now ; 
The mightiest dead no aid can render 

To trampled bosom or tortured brow I 

All that is past is past forever, 

Buried and lost in a soundless sea; 
Gaze not there, but with firm endeavor 

Fix thine eyes on what yet may be I 
Turn from the west, where night still lingers. 

Slumbrous, shadowy, weirdly gray ; 
Look to the east, where golden fingers 

Open the amethyst gates of day ! 

Over each peak and pfomontor)' 

Swiftly the wakening splendor flies. 
Till rounded summit and headland hoarj' 

Gleam with the new morn's roseate dyes ! 
For thee, O Erin, long bowed in sorrow. 

Thus hope and promise their radiance pour ; 
Lift up thy face to the dawning morrow. 

And mourn and weep in the gloom no more ! 



Faithful still are thy children to thee. 

Resolute, brave in the love they bear; 
Eager to serve as when fame first knew thee. 

Crowned as a Queen, and blithe and fair. 
Whether where Shannon and Suirare flowing 

Or toiling afar under stranger skies. 
Warmly for thee are their hearts still glowing. 

Proudly for thee does each fond thought rise! 



Winds are winging the songs they're singing. 

Seas are swelling each hopeful stram ; 
Winds and waves unto thee are bringing 

Sounds that echo one strong refrain : — 
Turn from the past where shrouds are lying. 

And shades are gathered in dumb array. 
Arise from travail and tears and sighing. 

And set thy face to the beaming day ! 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDS. 
Dead I— dead ! Ye are dead while ye live ; 

Ye've a name that ye live, — but are dead ; 
Neither counsel nor love did ye give. 

And your lips never uttered a word 
While swift ruin downward sped. 

And the plague raged on undisturbed. 
Not a throb of true life in your veins 

Not a pulse in your passionless heart. 
Not a thought in the dull, cold brains. 

Of how ye should bear your part 
When summoned the strife to brave. 
For our country, with Death and the grave. 

Ye have gold for the follies of fashion. 

And gold for its tinsel glare. 
But none for the wild, sobbing passion 

Wrung from the lips of despair- 
False Shepherds and Guides are ye. 

For the heart in each bosom is cold 
As the ice in a frozen sea ; 

And your trappings of velvet and gold 
Lie heavy and close as a pall. 
When the steps of the bearers fall 
On a grave, with measured tread ; 
For ve seem to live, — but are dead. 



Ye are dead ! — ye are dead ! stone by stone 

The temple is crumbling down ; 

It will fall with a crash of doom. 

For the night deepens dark in its gloom. 

But ye look on with vacant stare 
Like men lying still in the tomb. 

Stand forth ! face the sun. if ye dare. 
With your cold eyes unwet by a tear. 

For your country, laid low on your bier. 
And say — have ye stretched forth a hand 
To raise up our desolate Land? 

She dies, — but ye flourish and grow 
In the midst of the deadly maze : 



DRAGONS' TEETH. 



Like the palm springing heavenward ? — No ! 

But Uke weeds in the churchyard fed 
By the vapors of death below, 

Breathing round you a poisonous haze. 
Go ! — go ! True life is not so, — 

For decay lies beneath your tread. 
And the staff in your hand is a reed, 
Too weak for your country's need ; 

For ye seem to live, — but are dead. 

Ye are dead ! — Ye are dead ! Fling the clay 

On the noble names, noble no more ; 
Leave the sword in the sheath to rust ; 
Let the banners be trailed in the dust ; 
And the memory perish away 

Of the dead, who are dead evermore ; 
Blot them out from the book writ in gold. 

Noble neither in deed nor in soul. 

Are ye worthy to stand in the roll 
Of the glorified heroes of old .' 

Has Ireland need of such sons .' 

Floating down with a silken sail 
On the crimson tide of her life, that runs 

With a mournful, ceaseless wail. 

Like rain pouring down from the eaves. 
And ye laugh when the strangers deride 

Her trials, the saddest and sorest, 
And plunge the sword deep in her side ; 

And no kindly heart sighs or grieves 
For her branches, all bare as a forest 

When the autumn wind scatters the leaves. 

Laugh low with your perfumed breath. 
For the air is heavy with death. 
But ye hear not the gliding feet 

Of the Future, that stands at your door ; 
For the roses lie heavy and sweet. 

And too thick on your marble floor. 
And your dead soul is dead to his call. 

And your eyes are heaxjy with wine ; 
Ye see not the letters of flame. 

Traced by a hand divine, — 
The writing of God on the wall, — 
"Ye are weighed and found wanting!" — Oh, 
shame! 

Your life is a gilded lie ; 
And the wide world that doom has read. 

With a shudder and chill of dread ; 
For the judgment of God is nigh, 
And the universe echoes the cry, — 

Ye've a name that ye live — but are dead ! 

LADY VVILDP:. 



DRAGONS' TEETH. 
Oh ! where are you going with corpse-lights 
glowing. 
Here where the ravenous were-wolf moans.' 
And what are you sowing — carelessly strew- 
ing— 
Down in the valley of dead men's bones? 
Woman in scarlet and purple and gold. 
Beautiful, witch-like Delilah of old. 

Bright with the phosphor of death. 
Blighting the lands with her breath, 
Swiftly she's strowing, swiftly she's sowing, 
In the valley of ghouls beneath. 
The Dragons' teeth. 

Oh ! well do we know you, and rich store we 
owe you. 
Woman of Babylon, robed in red ! 
Rich store we owe you, and strange grain 
we'll sow you. 
Bake for your hunger your own bitter bread. 
Empress we've seen as the whole world's 

bride, 
Filled to the throat with carnage and pride. 
Cruel as Scylla and fair. 
Slaying the strong with despair, — 
Fain would we show you the great crops we'll 
sow you. 
In the valley of ghouls beneath — 
Of Dragons' teeth. 

Oh ! never once o'er you, and never before 
you, 
Never behind you your eyes shall look ; 
Princes and merchants are here that adore 
you. 
Warning nor prayer at the last you shall 
brook ; 
Woman that's drunken with agony's wine. 
Woman that's blinded with glamour and 
shine. 
Never to front or to rear 
Glancing with rue or fear- 
Doom is before you, omnipotence o'er you, 
While you sow 'mid the ghouls beneath 
The Dragons' teeth. 

The great crop is growing, the white skenes 
are glowing. 
The aumb armies gather with fleet steps 
behind ; 
The fool that will know not shall perish 
unknowing ; 
The e3'es that will see not shall ever be 
blind. 



4'4 

Woman of Babylon, call, oh call '. 
Cry for lackey, and lover, and thrall ! 

Far off they shall sUnd with jeers ; 

Never again in the years 
Shall we see you going, with red hands sowing 

In the valley of ghouls beneath— 
The Dragons' teeth. 

FANNY PAKXKLL. 



OURSELVES ALONE. 
The work that should to-day be wrought. 

Defer not till to-morrow ; 
The help that should within be sought. 

Scorn from without to borrow ; 
Old maxims these, yet stout and true : 

They speak in trumpet tone 
To do at once what is to do. 

And trust ourselves alone. 

Too long have Irish hearts been schooled 

In patient hope to bide. 
By dreams of English justice fooled. 

And English tongues that lied ; 
That hour of weak delusion's past, 

The empty dream is flown ; 
Our hope and strength, we find at last. 

Is in ourselves alone. 

Ay ! bitter hate, or cold neglect. 

Or lukewarm love at best. 
Is all we've found or can expect. 

We Aliens of the West. 
No friend, beyond our own green shoi 

Can Erin truly own ; 
Yet stronger is her trust, therefore. 

In her brave sons alone. 

Remember when our lot was worse, — 

Sunk, trampled in the dust, 
'Twas long our weakness and our curse 

In stranger aid to trust ; 
And if. at length, we proudly trod 

On bigot laws o'erthrown. 
Who won that struggle? Under God, 

Ourselves — ourselves alone 1 

Oh, let its memory be enshrined 

In Ireland's heart forever; 
It proves a banded people's mind 

Must win in just endeavor ; 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



It shows how wicked to despair. 
How weak to idly groan ; — 

If ills at others' hands you bear. 
The cure is in your own. 

The " foolish word impossible." 

At once, for aye, disdain ; 
No power can bar a people's will 

A people's right to gain. 
Be bold, united, (irmly set 

Nor flinch in word or tone, — 
We'll be a glorious nation yet. 

Redeemed, erect, alone! 

JOHN 



HOW HAVE YE LABORED ? 

As starlight on the sleeping earth 
My early thoughts came to my soul 
That mourned in bitterness and dol 

Of truth and trust the fearful dearth. 

I thought of all my early dreams — 
The young hearts marshalled for the fight. 
When Right would march o'er brutal Might, 
And men, in beauty's harness diglit, 

Quaff flashing draughts of Spartan streams. 

When blackened walls shall cease to pain 

The gaze of Christian manhood's eye; 
When forms once swept by sleet and rain 
By blazing hearths might sit again, 
And smile at tempests warring by. 

And freemen stand on hill and rock, 
No master but the Lord above. 
And banners long in darkness hid 
Shine like a blazing pyramid. 
And brethren learn their hearts to lock 
In the strong clasp of angel love. 

All unfulfilled. The earth is dark 

As ever with the lust of wrong ; 
Christ's children wander pale and stark 

.\mid the red assassin throng. 

And some ask madly, " Where is God ?" 
With boiling veins and streaming eyes. 
They blame His justice-dealing rod ; 
They hear no calm voice from the skies: 
■ How have ye labored, men of earth. 
To win regenerating birth ?" 



OUR VOW. 



And others whine, with slavish bow, 
" The crowning day will shortly come - 
Till then we sit in martyrdom ; 
Once we had dreams — we spurn them now.' 
■' How have ye labored ? martyrs, tell," 
Rings out the ceaseless voiceful bell; 

And I, too, in my frenzy held 

Reproachful thoughts, that all my dreams 
Had faded like the four bright streams 
Which once in beauteous Eden welled, 
How have you labored, minstrel, say! 
To raise your visions from the clay? 

" How have ye labored ?" This is all, 

O teachers of our fallen land ! 
To free the stricken one from thrall 

Have ye obeyed the Lord's command 
As erst the faithless-hearted Saul, 

Or walked with David and his band ? 

Ah me ! my heart is full of dole, 
The myriads pass with faces white, 

I hear a still voice in my soul : 

•' Ye did not labor well and true, 
As the appointed men should do 

Who lead the strife of truth and right." 

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 



OUR COURSE. 

We looked for guidance to the blind ! 

We sued for counsel to the dumb 1 
Fling the vain fancy to the wind — 

Their hour is past and oiiis is come ! 
They gave, in that propitious hour. 

Nor kindly look nor gracious tone ; 
But heaven has not denied us power 

To do their duty, and our own. 

And is it true that tyrants throw 

Their shafts among us steeped in gall } 
And every arrow, swift or slow. 

Points foremost still, ascent or fall .' 
Still sure to wound us, though the aim 

Seems ta'en remotely, or amiss .' 
And men with spirits feel no shame 

To brook so dark a doom as this } 

Alas ! the noble of the land 

Are like our long-deserted halls; 

No living voices, clear and grand. 
Respond when foe or freedom calls ; 



4^5 

But ever and anon descends 

Low moaning, when the tempest rolls, — 
A tone that desolation lends 

Some crevice of their ruined souls ! 

So be it,— yet shall we prolong [need ? 

Our prayers, when deeds would serve our 
Or wait for woes, the swift and strong 

Can ward by strength or 'scape by speed.' 
The vilest of the vile of earth, 

Were nobler than our proud array. 
If, suffering bondage from our birth. 

We will not burst it when we may ! 

And has the bondage not been borne 

Till all our softer nature fled — 
Till tyranny's dark tide had worn 

Down to the stubborn rock its bed .' 
But if the current, cold and deep. 

That channel through all time retain, 
At worst, by heaven ! it shall not sweep 

Unrtijffled o'er our hearts again ! 

JOHN D. FRASER. 



OUR vow. 
They may pluck the green bays from thy brow. 

Thy laurels in twain they may tear. [bow 
Till thy beautiful head to the dust thou must 

'Neath the weight of a ghastly despair; 

They may jibe thee and jeer thee, astor, 
As they jibed thee and jeered thee for years; 

They may pamper their veins with thy sancti- 
fied gore ; 
And laugh at thy sorrowing tears; 

They may scourge, they may plunder and slay 

All over thy emerald strand ; 
They may scatter, as weeds of the ocean, away 

The sinew and bone of the land ; 

They may tread on thy once radiant crown ; 

They may people each tall mountain's base, 
Each hillock and hamlet, each city and town, 

With the clans of their conquermg race ; 

They may strew the fair fields with thy dead, 

Mid the smoke of their myriad guns ; 
But the chains that they forge and the red 
blood they shed 
Shall never make serfs of thy sons. 



4i6 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



We vowed in the sunshine of youth, 
We vow when our bright youth is past, 

That the instincts of freedom, the lessons of 
Shall live in our souls to the last;— [truth. 

That we 11 march "neath the flag as of old. 
With the faith and the trust of the brave, 

Tho' the creed we believe and the pathway we 
But lead to the dungeon or grave ! [hold 

Yet we vow but the centuried vow — 

The vow of our thousands of dead : [brow. 

To replace the green bays on thy sorrowing 
And its crown on thy beautiful head ! 

EUGENE DAVIS. 



CUl BONO' 



If all the wrath of England ran 

To fill the land with ruin-fires. 
If all her bloodiest hounds began 

To tear us as they tore our sires : 
If every cabin felt the flame. 

And all the fields were waste and red. 
Till silence o'er our highways came — 

Such silence as will bless the dead ; 

If blood were spilled in thunder-showers 

Where'er the hunted came to bay. 
And all the grass and all the flowers 

Were stained and sickened day by day : 
If once again the maidens cried 

To all the hills to hide their heads. 
And babes and mothers side by side 

Lay butchered in their bloody beds: 

If all the love that lit the land 

When priests knew well how hunger kills. 
Flashed out again when, bruised and banned. 

The priests were with us on the hills : 
If in the lonely mountain cave 

We heard how Jude and Macchabee 
Cried God's great curse to smite the slave 

Who e'er forgot God made him free : 

If all the tears our fathers shed 

Came back to us, and all the groans ; 
And wives and sons and daughters dead 

Lay, with no priest to bless their bones: 
All. all were vain to quench the fires 

That burn within our veins to-day; 
So help us. God, that helped our sires, 

We cannot give the land away ! 

J. J, .MURPHV. 



BIDE YOUR TIME. 

Bide your time : the morn is breaking. 
Bright with freedom's blessed ray; 

Millions, from their trance awaking. 
Soon shall stand in firm array. 

Man shall fetter man no longer- 
Liberty shall march sublime : 

Every moment makes you stronger- 
Firm, unshrinking, bide your time ! 

Bide your time : one false step taken 

Perils all you yet have done : 
Undismayed — erect— unshaken, 

Watch and wait, and all is won. 
Tis not by a rash endeavor 

Men or states to greatness climb : — 
Would you win your rights forever — 

Calm and thoughtful, bide your time ! 

Bide your time : your worst transgression 
Were to strike, and strike in vain ; 

He whose arm would smite oppression. 
Must not need to smite again. 

Danger makes the brave man steady. 
Rashness is the coward's crime ; 

Be for freedom's battle ready- 
When it comes — but bide your time ! 

MICHAEL J. BARRY. 



JUSTICE. 



Spirit of awe. enthroned in the thunderous 

heart of the night, 
Spirit of terrible eyes, with the blaze of Mount 

Sinai alight. 
Looking thro" endless fogs of blood, thro' 

quenchless vapors of tears. 
That creep and coil and climb from the 

hideous stream of the years ; 

Spirit with pallid blood-tipped hands, hung 

limp and loose at thy side. 
Seeming too feeble for aught save a cloud or 

a feather to guide : — 
Hands that are strong as God's— drooping 

listless 'mid rapine and wrong! 
Is it we that are foolish and blind ? or thou 

that stayest too long ? 

Lo ! the spectre of Murder flings her challenge 

right up in thy face. 
And the hooves of the Men of Peace have 

trodden thy holiest place, 



LE REVEILLE. 



417 



And the Champion of Freedom sets, with a 
threat and a curse and a blow. 

His heel on the struggling slave, and thinks, 
— •' Aha ! God shall never know !" 

Have we made us a fetich of stone, in a shrine 
too far away 

For the stormiest prayer to reach, that a 
trampled soul can pray? 

Is our Justice a grinning fiend, or only a deaf- 
mute born ? 

And our Christ — our beautiful Christ ! — will 
he pass the leper in scorn ? 

From the crater of night shoots out a great 
white arm like a bar. 

From the crater of night flames out a won- 
drous Face like a star ; 

Yet a moment and all is black, while the 
thunder moans and swells. 

Till it shapes to a voice at last, like the crash 
of a million bells. 

And it says. " O ye craven hearts, the immor- 
tal times are yours ; 

Blessed is he that labors, thrice blessed is he 
that endures ; 

Wait ! for your waiting is God-like, yet work, 
for no true work is vain ; 

And your martyrdom's rack shall seem but a 
moment's dream of pain." 

Then a sword flashed over the gulf, and we 

veiled our faces in dust ; 
"We have murmured and sinned," we cried. 

" in Thy sight, O God, that art just ; 
For we know when the day shall come, Thy 

arm is not shortened yet. 
And the robber shall pay at last the outermost 

farthing of debt." 

FANNY PARNELL. 



" For ages three without laws ye shall flee as 

beasts in the forest; 
For an age and a half age faith shall bring 

not peace, but a sword ; 
Then laws shall rend you, like eagles sharp- 

fanged, of your scourges the sorest ; 
When these three woes are past, look up, for 

your hope is restored. 

" The times of your woe shall be twice the 

time of your foregone glory ; 
But fourfold at last shall be the grain on your 

granary floor." 
The seas in vapor shall fleet, and in ashes the 

mountains hoary: 
Let God do that which He wills. Let His 

servants endure and adore ! 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



LE REVEILLE. 



It was the lark — not the nightingale — 

Poured forth her notes of warning ; 
Upwards she flew from the sun-lit vale. 

Awoke by the light of the morning. 
The day, the day is bright ! 
The night 

Hath fled that in darkness bound ye ; 
Fling ye the myrtle of love aside. 
And grasp the sword whate'er may betide— 

For the Foemen are gathering round ye ! 

It was the lark — not the nightingale- 
Arouse ye from apathy's slumber! 

Few and dull do your watchfires pale. 
But they soon shall the stars outnumber. 
Awake, awake to life ! 
The strife 
For God and your right advances ; 

Leave the white arms of weeping beauty. 

The van of the battle's your post of duty. 
Where glitter the Foeman's lances! 



THE THREE WOES. 
That angel whose charge is Eire sang thus, 

o'er the dark isle winging ; 
By a virgin his song was heard at a tempest's 

ruinous close : 
" Three golden ages God gave while your 

tender green blade was springing ; 
Faith's earliest harvest is reaped. To-day God 

sends you three woes. 



It was the lark — not the nightingale — 

The gate of the morning uncloses : 
She sings of the thundering cannon's hail — 

She sings of the battle's roses; 
On the warrior's breast 
They rest— 

The crimson roses that free the world ! 
Up. then, in Liberty's cause ye are sent — 
Let the wide heavens be but one warrior's tent, 

When the banner of Freedom's unfurled. 



4i8 



POEAfS OF PATKTOTISM. 



It was the lark — not the nightingale — 
Leave, then, O youth, thy dreaming! 
As dashes the torrent adown the vale. 
O'er all barriers wildly streaming. 
So of thy young heart's blood. 
The flood 
Pour down on thy thirsty land : 
And Liberty's cause, that would else have 

died. 
Will bloom afresh from that crimson tide ; 
So pledge ye your heart and hand. 

It was the lark — not the nightingale — 

Who chanted a Nation's rise ; 
Borne on the wings of the morning gale. 
It peals through the azure skies. 
Liberty's torch is bright ! 
The light 
May mock our tyrants' scorning. 
For millions of hearts will be kindled ere noon ; 
And the freedom we dream'd of in darkness, 
full soon 
We'll achieve in the light of the morning ! 

LADY WILUE. 



THE MUSIC OF THE FUTURE. 
Hark. hark, that chime 1 the frosts are o'er I 

With the birds force on the spring: 
Thus. Ireland, sang thy bards of yore : 

O younger bards, 'tis time to sing! 
Your countr)''s smile, that with the past 

Lay dead so long — that vanished smile, 
Evoke it from the dark, and cast 

Its light around a tearful isle. 

Like severed locks that keep their light 

When all the stately form is dust. 
A nation's songs preserve from blight 

A nation's name, their sacred trust. 
Temple and pyramid eterne 

May memorize her deeds of power ; 
But only from the songs we learn 

How throbbed her life-blood, hour by hour. 



Well might the Muse at times forsake 

Her Grecian hill, and sit where swerve 
In lines like those of Hebe's neck. 

That wood-girt bay. yon meadow's curve, 
Watching the primrose clusters throw 

Their wan light o'er that ivied cave. 
And airs by myrtles odorcd blow 

The apple-blossom on the wave I 

Thrice blessed the strain that, when the May 
[ Woos thus the young leaf from the bud. 
When robins, thrushlike, shake the spray. 
! And deef>ening purples tinge the flood. 
Kindles new worlds of love and truth, 
^ This world's lost Eden, still new-born, 
In breast of Irish maid or youth, 

Reading beneath the Irish thorn ! 
I 

' That lures from overheated strife 
i Blinded ambition's tool ; that o'er 
The fields of unsabbatic life 

The church bells of the past can pour; 
Around the old oak lightning-scarred 

Can raise the virgin woods that rang 
When, throned 'mid listening kerns, the bard 
Of Oisin and of Patrick sang. 

Saturn ian years return ! Erelong 

Peace, justice-built, the Isle shall cheer: 
Even now old sounds of ancient wrong 

At distance roll, and come not near: 
Past is the iron age, — the .storms 

That lashed the worn clifT. shock on shock: 
The bird, in tempest cradled, warms 

At last her wings upon the rock. 

I How many a bard may lurk even now, 

Ireland, among thy noble poor! 
To Truth their genius let them vow. 
And scorn the Siren's tinsel lure ; 
I Faithful to illustrate God's word 

On Nature writ ; or re-revealing 
Thro' Nature. Christian lore transferred 



faith to sight by songs heart-healing. 



Thrice blessed the strain that brings to one 

Who weeps by some Australian rill 
A worn-out life far oflf begun. 

His country's countenance beauteous still 
• That 'mid Canadian wilds, or where 

Rich-feathered birds are void of song. 
Wafts back, 'mid gusts of Irish air. 

Old wood-notes loved and lost so long I 



I Fair land ! the skill was thine of old 

Upon the illumined scroll to trace. 
In heavenly blazon, blue or gold. 

The martyr's f>alm, the angel's face ; 
One day on every Muse's page 

Be thine a saintly light to fling. 
And bathe the world's declining age 

Once more in its baptismal spring. 




""'•'^i/.i'amaraniii^''-^' 






WHAT SHALL H'E WEEP FOR? 



419 



Man sows. A Hand divine must reap ; 

The toil wins most that wins not praise ; 
Stones buried in oblivion deep 

May help the destined pile to raise, 
Foundations fix for pier or arch ; 

Above that spirit-bridge's span 
To Faith's inviolate home may march 

In God's good time enfranchised man. 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



WHAT SHALL WE WEEP FOR? 

ers."— y^re-;«/rt/f. 

Shall we weep for thee, O my mother, — shall 
we weep for the martyred land, — 

For the queen that is prone in ashes, struck 
down by a robber's hand ? 

Shall we weep for the fair green banner, 
drowned deep in a sea of tears — 

For the golden harp that is broken, and dumb 
with the rust of years ? 

Shall we weep for the children banished, or 
for those crushed down to the brute, — 

Crushed out of the semblance of human, 
while Justice sits blind and mute? 

For the peasant that died in torment^, — for 

the hero that battling fell. 
For the martyr that slowly rotted in the 

voiceless dungeon cell } 

For the famine, the filth, and fever, the lash 

and the pitchcap, and sword. 
For the homeless, cofiinless corpses, flung out 

on their native sward ? 

For the strong man that crept from prison, 
old, helpless, and blind, to die. 

For the soldier that bled for England, 'neath 
many a hostile sky, — 

Whom England, delighting to honor, gifts of 

chains and a dungeon ga\ e, 
Till his brave heart broke with its anguish, 

and he staggered from cell to grave ? 

Shall we weep for these, O my brothers .' — my 
brothers in pain and in love, — 

For these who liave suffered and perished, 
and shine as the stars above? 



Lo ! yonder, like white hot beacons, they light 

up the path we should tread ; 
Pure flames on the heavenly watch-towers, — 

shall we weep for those happy dead ? 

Nay, not for mother or children, nor for 

centuries' woes we'll weep, 
But w^e'll weep for the vengeance coming, 

that waits, but shall never sleep. 

Let us weep for the hand that's bloody with 

many an innocent life; 
Let us weep for those who have trampled the 

defenceless down in the strife ; 

For the heart the Lord hath hardened, with 
triumph, and spoil, and crown. 

For the robber whose plundered kingdoms 
never see the sun go down ; 

For the Scarlet Woman that's drunken with 
the blood and tears of her slaves. 

Who goes forth to slay with a psalm-tune, 
and builds her churches on graves ; 

For her sons who rush out to murder, and 
return with plunder and prayer. 

Lifting up to the gentle Saviour the red hands 
that never spare ; 

For these, and the doom that is on them, the 

spectre ghastly and gray. 
Looming far in the haunted future, where 

Nemesis waits her prey — 

Let us weep, let us weep, my brothers ! We 

have heard but a whisper fall. 
But we know the voice of the tempest, be it 

ever so still and small. 

To their God of Cant and Slaughter they 
shall cry in their hour of need. 

But the true God shall rise and break them as 
pne that breaketh a reed. 

Weep not for the wronged, but the wronger, — 
the despot whom God hath cursed, — 

Holding off awhile till the floodgates of His 
gathering wrath have burst, 

For the wronged, a moment's anguish — for 
the wronger, damnation deep, — 

He that soweth the wind shall surely for 
harvest the whirlwind reap. 

FANNY PARNELL, 



420 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



THE ROSEMARY CROWN. 
Waiting in sorrow and mourning — 

Waiting through gloomiest night, 
Clad in the robe of the cypress — 

Craving for beauty and light; 
Centuries lifted the nations. 

And hurled wrong's pinnacles down — 
Yet still holy Ireland is waiting. 

And wearing the Rosemary Crown. 

Oh, the fullness of joy in the hoping. 

The rich light which fancy had dreamed. 
When once, for the lapse of a moment. 

The sunlight of Liberty streamed. 
How we planted the flag on our towers. 

And waved it o'er mountain and town : 
But, alas! still the cypress was blooming — 

Alas ! for the Rosemary Crown. 

And lonely, and lonely, and lonely, 

A watcher still sat by the sea. 
With face as the white marble pallid. 

And eyes gazing mournfully ; 
With hands lifted up in appealing 

That God would His mercy send down. 
Anc" "he leaves of the laurel be shining, 

Wnere rested the Rosemary Crown. 

We gave her the song of the j>oet. 

We gave her the work of the brain. 
Cast the glory of heaven around her. 

Yet still all our work was inane. 
"She is dead." said the scoff of the stranger, 

A laugh for the cynic and clown ; 
Ah ! little he knew the wild passion 

Long hid in the Rosemary Crown. 

Now, the love and the hope of a world, 

Dear Mother! thy children have brought: 
The hard-handed strength of the soldier. 

The blade of the mind full of thought. 
The earnestness martyrs have taught us. 

The strength of their glorious renown — 
To the graves of the dead shall be borne 

The leaves of the Rosemar)' Crown. 

Weep not! 'tis the hour of the dawning — 

Weep not ! we are ready to save — 
Nor reck of a newer heart broken. 

Nor reck of another fresh grave. [time. 

O'er the graves we have marched in the past 

Still praying the dew to fall down. 
Till the leaves of the bay shine as fairly- - 

As darkly the Rosemarj' Crown. 

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 



AFTER AUGHRIM. 
Do you remember long ago, 
' Kathaleen ! 

When your lover whispered low, 
■' Shall I stay or shall I go. 

Kathaleen.^" 
And you answered proudly, "Go 
.\nd join King James and strike a blu 

For the Green." 

Maxirone .' your hair is white as snow, 

Kathaleen ! 
Your heart is sad and full of woe — 
Do you repent you bade him g'~ 

Kathaleen ? 
And through your tears you answer. 
Better die with Sarsfield so 
Than live a slave, without a blow 

For the Green." 

AKTHLR GERALD GEOGHEGAN. 



No! 



SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 

In due time we shall reap, if we faint not. "—Gal. vi. 

Guard we the holy Faith 
With love as strong as death ; 

Many the tears it cost us. — 

Cherished the friends it lost us — 

Oh, by the heavy Past, 

Hold we the Old Faith fast : 

So shall we win at last 
The crown of our toils and scaith. 

The ploughshare was sharp and red — 
Graves 'neath our footsteps spread — 
The seed-time was long and dreary. 
The sowers weeping and weary ; 
Chilling the sudden snows. 
Bitter the piercing woes 
That saddened the souls of those 
j Who planted the Future's bread. 

I They passed over many lands, 
1 Still, as with fated hands. 

Toiling in fruitless patience, 
I Outcasts among the nations. 
' While round them the glad earth teemed. 

No har\*est for them e'er gleamed. 

And idle their labor seemed 
I As sowing the desert sands. 



But a light o'er the ocean afar 

Comes, bright as Aurora's car. 

And in its radiance glancing 

Troop upon troop advancing. 



1 



SUiX-BL'IiST. 



421 



Chanting a beautiful strain, 
Laden with golden grain. 
The fruit of the tearful rain 
That fell 'neath our wormwood Star. 

Before them a Presence grand. 

Of aspect benign and bland, 

Saith " These are your great departed. 
The patient and faithful hearted, 

Who add to thy crown of glory 

The lustre of their story; 

And I, who ever watch o'er ye. 
Your Patron for ever more, 
Bid peace on your emerald shore ; 
So while our Lord ye adore 

Shall ye hence possess your Land ! 

OI.TVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 



THE PENAL DAYS. 
O! weep those days, the penal days. 

When Ireland hopelessly complained ! 
O I weep those days, the penal daj-s. 
When godless persecution reigned ! 
When year by year. 
For serf and peer. 
Fresh cruelties were made by law. 
And, filled with hate. 
Our senate sate 
To weld anew each fetter's flaw. 
O ! weep those days, those penal days — 
Their mem'ry still on Ireland weighs. 

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son. 

To sell the priest and rob the sire ; 
Their dogs were taught alike to run 
Upon the scent of wolf and friar. 
Among the poor. 
Or on the moor, 
Were hid the pious and the true — 
While traitor knave. 
And recreant slave, 
Had riches, rank, and retinue ; 
And, exiled in those penal days, 

Our banners over Europe blaze. 
A stranger held the land and tower 

Of many a noble fugitive ; 
No Popish lord had lordly power. 
The peasant scarce had leave to live ; 
Above his head 
A ruined shed. 
No tenure but a tyrant's will — 
Forbid to plead. 
Forbid to read, 



Disarm'd, disfranchis'd, imbecile — 
What wonder if our step betrays 
The freedman, born in penal days ? 

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days! 

All creeds are equal in our isle ; 
Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, 
Our ancient feuds to reconcile. 
Let all atone 
For blood and groan. 
For dark revenge and open wrong ; 
Let all unite 
For Ireland's right. 
And drown our grief in Freedom's song; 
Till time shall veil in twilight haze, 
The memory of those Penal days. 

THOMAS D.A.VIS. 



SUN-BURST. 

I. 

Oh! hear you the sound of shouting far over 

the eastern waves? 
The voice of a people calling, "Come help us, 

for we are slaves.'" 
And see you the banners flying, the sinister 

glow of steel. 
As the hordes of the tyrant gather, and the 
plains beneath them reel.' 

Why do the valleys of Erin ring with the 

sound of a name. 
Once it were treason to utter? Why are her 

hilltops aflame? 
Has the long slumber been broken? Have 

the dead spoken at last? 
i Sending the slogan of battle far on the wild 

sweeping blast' 

Ah, but the years are returning! Time is the 

Tighter of all ; 
He will repay for the slaughter; his voice will 

answer the call, 
That loud through the echoing ages, the ages 

of hatred has told 
How the hand of the slayer has reddened, his 

heart in its anger grown cold. 

II. 
What have we done that is criminal? Why 

are we holden in cliains? 
Where is the blot on our scutcheon? Where 

on our record the stains? 



422 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Have we not stood forourbrothers, when, like Then when the brightness of mornins; shone 

a fierce crimson rain, through the swift fading must. 

Over and over our bodies surged the red blood Loud rose the sound of our progress, song in 

of our slain ? our valleys made tryst. 

Who, when our graves grew in number, who Say we arc hard in our anger, say that our 

when our hearthstones were bare. hands have grown red ; 

Came with the burden of plenty, strong- Have we not watched in the darkness, watched 

limbed, and loyal, and fair.' by our murdered dead. 

Was it the nation that held us? She who Watched in the land that bore us, the land 

grew rich with our s|X)il ? j that is ours by right. 

Rich from our courage in battle, rich from Telling our sorrow in whispers, and fearing 

our daring in toil.' the dawn of light? 



No! In her halls she was feasting. What 

though we starved at her door? 
We, who had beaten her foeman back from 

her wave-beaten shore ; 
We had no grain from her threshing; we had 

no wine from her press; 
Only the scorn of her silence, while the store 

in our hovels grew less. 



Ours is the ptatient waiting, and ours is the 

garnered wrong ; 
We have seen the bright days darken, and the 

years grow cold and long ; 
We have worked when hands were weary, but 

we never reaped the gain ; 
They have gathered the wheat and comfort, 

and left us the chaff and pain. 



Far over wide leagues of ocean came the | Yet we envy not their riches, let them keep 

white sails of the ships, their heavy gold. 

Hearing the bread that would help us, the : And leave us our ancient birthright, the 

wine that was sweet to our lips ; i freedom we won of old. 

What have we then to be glad for, what have i When the dawning flashed in splendor on the 

we then to repay, ' lines of level spears. 

To her who listened unheeding, holding her And we charged the Danish foemen, while the 

shut hands away? i air grew loud with cheers. 

Nothing but hate do we owe her, nothing \ The days of our waiting are numbered, the 

but battle and wrath ; , time of our serving past; 

She who has grown on our hunger, the serpent You can hear the braying of trumpets, the roll 

that rose in our path ; of drums on the blast ; 

That filled our valleys with wailing, and stole And now when the war clouds gather, we will 

the strength of our lives, stand as oft we have stood. 

And left in our desolate dwellings the tears ! When we held the front of the battle and the 

and moaning of wives. earth was red with blood. 

Look at the years in their passing; what ; Oh ! men who have seen the sunburst, the 

have they given the world ? radiant coming of morn. 

Hope for the gladness of nations; thought at j Surge over the purple mountains, and shine 

all tyranny hurled ; 1 on your bending corn ; 

Freedom for men held in bondage; deeds , By the love that is your triumph, by the blood 

that were kindly and just; that made you free, 

Only one land was forgotten, one banner still I Send us back a shout of greeting, acioss the 

trails in the dust. wide reaches of sea. 



Nothing have we to be glad for; once we had ; Now when the foe is marching, and the great 
glory and pride, | guns grimly frown. 

Holding the beacon of promise, sending our And the heavy wrath of the tempest on our 
call far and wide ; | worn land bears down. 



THE FAMINE OF 1880. 



423 

When the lurid light of the bale-fires is gleam- j O miracle of miracles! O wondrous cause of 



ing in the sky, 
Out through the growing darkr 
you our passionate cry. 

III. 

Why are the fetters clanking? and why do 

the bright swords shine? 
Is there coming another harvest of blood that 

is red as wine ? 
Yes. up through the heights of purple you 

can hear the cry, wind-blown, 
Of a nation, loudly calling to be brought unto 

its own. 



wonder! 
send ; Proclaim the story to mankind with trumpet 
of the thunder! 
A fertile, generous, joyous land, forbid to feed 
[ its people 

By laws enacted 'neath the shade of con- 
secrated steeple ! 
Starvation made by statute — famine a legal 

code 
For subjects of a Government with an 

" established " God ! 
Look not into their genial soil for hunger's 
helpless cause — [laws 

j The Irish people famish — to obey their English 



.■\h, but the years are returning, and the dead ^^ey plow and plant, they sow and reap, they 



will not lie still 



weave and spin all day. 



You can see their garments trailing far along ^j^e English fleet is at their whar%'es to bear 

each windy hill ; j^ ^U ^^,a.v ' 

And the air is full of moaning, and the earth i ^j^^j^ fathers' land the alien owns ; the land- 



salt with tears. 



lords own their labor; 



And the hate that is strong in battle is the ^ j^gj^. mortgaged lives have been foreclosed 



bitter hate of years. 

The high waves surge on the headlands, tne 

wild winds sweep through the land. 
And the murmurs of strife are rising : who 

now will idle stand ? 
For the tyrants have banded together, they 

will strike again and again. 
And the struggle is that of Freedom, the j 

strong, sweet Freedom of men. j 

THOMAS S. COLLIER. [ 



THE FAMINE OF 1880. 



Serenely on the ocean sits an island in the 

sheen 
Of silver skies and purple hills and pastures 

ever green. j 

The corn is waving gladsomely, the white 

flocks bleat with glee ; 
And tawny herds shake silken sides in valley, ] 

glen, and lea; j 

Fish frolic in the rivers, birds carol in the trees. 
White sails gleam in the harbors, ships throng ' The morning mist has disappeared — the vision 



to glut their English neighbor! 
Their rulers, oh, are noble! See yonder 

mincing Earl! 
His sire went forth to Ireland a thieving 

English churl, 
He pulled from out the shallows the King's 

ship's entangled flukes, — 
His sovereign dubbed him on the shore the 

first of Irish dukes ! 

Behold the lovely vista within yon Irish dale ! 
The rosy dawn is blushing behind her hazy 

veil; 
The brooklet prattles on the sward, the linnet's 

early notes 
Are answered from the foliage by countless 

tuneful throats; 
The zephyrs tease the tassels of the nodding, 

drowsy grain 
That soon will be awakened to be tossed into 

the wain ; — 
Now o'er the luscious landscape the sun's 

broad rays are broke. 
And from the cottage chimneys ascends the 

cheery smoke ! 



her busy quays : — 
It was not thence that groan came forth 
again it swells on high 



is still clearer, — 
What terror-stricken band is that whose feet 
hurrying nearer ? 



In Ireland'sbread and meat enough— not /^^r.s I God of justice! God of mercy! They are 



famine cry." 



weeping, they are shrieking! 



1 



424 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



There is frenzy on their faces, and some with 

wounds are reeking! 
The bailiff horde behind them in cruel fury 

comes, 
For the smoke we saw ascending was the 

burning of their homes 1 

So this is Irish famine and this is English law, 
And this the saddest sight on earth that 

Sorrow ever saw I 
Nature's heart is touched with pity, Nature's 

eyes with tears are filled, 
While the people die of hunger in the fields 

that they have tilled I 
From the pastures low the cattle, " For the 

stranger is our flesh " ; 
Moans the wind unto the har\'est: "For the 

stranger you must thresh "; 
And the sheep bleat sadly seaward from green 

gorges in the rocks : 
" The stranger wears our wool, and the stranger 

eats our flocks " ; 
And the horses paw in fur)' as they neigh from 

out the manger, 
" Oh. we would fight for Ireland — but our 

backs are for the stranger ! " 

In this band of homeless outcasts limps a 

cripple whose deep scars 
Tell of service as a soldier, perhaps m foreign 

wars ; 
An arm is gone ; he totters ; in vouth his hair 

is white , 
Is it hunger makes you tremble who shrank 

not in the fight? 
The coat he wears is tattered — why, the color! 

yes, 'tis blue I 
Were you ever in America? pale friend, oh, 

tell me true ! 
The ashen lips grow livid, the face becomes 

less wan — 
"Ay, was I," proudly answers he, "I fought 

with Sheridan ! 

" Before the war was over, here my aged 

father died ; 
The only daughter, fair and young, lies buried 

at his side ; 
The dear old mother lingered still. — to shelter 

her from harm 
I came across the water, and worked the little 

'Twas taken from us yesterday — " "And she?" 
" She died last night — 



Of hunger, hunger — oh, great God ! that son 

should see such sight ! 
In battle I ne'er trembled— in the whirr of 

shot and shell 
I rushed with demon recklessness within the 

living hell ! 
To-day I shake with palsy, unmanned by 

hunger's pangs: 
I feel about my breaking heart a slimy 

creature's fangs ; 
And all are gone who loved me, the last one 

of my kin ; — 
Patrick drove the serpents out to let English 

reptiles in ! " 

Lo, here a mother hurries, in her fleshless 

arms a child. 
Her limbs begin to fail her, her face is white 

and wild ; 
Full twenty miles she walked to-day to reach a 

poor-house door. 
And keep the feeble flickering light in eyes 

that ope no more ! 
Dead the babe upon her bosom ! Oh, 

mother's mighty sorrow. 
Bewail in vain your journey's length ! Bewail 

your awful morrow ! 
" Dear turf," she faintly murmurs, " take the 

life I could not save! 
Oh, land that dare not give her bread, give 
. my sweet child a grave ! " 

She falls — she dies — but not until her voice 

has stirred the tombs : 
"Victoria, with my milkless breasts, I curse 

your English wombs! " 

Philanthropist and missioner lives on St. 

George's Channel — 
Sends Bibles — lo the Pope of Rome, and to 

the tropics — flannel ! 
Prays godly prayers iox fort-ign sin before her 

holy altar. 
The while her hands twist at her back for 

Ireland's neck a halter! 
In foriign lands protects the weak, with 

treaties— or with cannon ! 
And turns the dagger in the heart of her 

sister on the Shannon ! 
I So generous to her foreign foes they praise 
' her to the sky— 

And leaves her Irish subjects one privilege — 

to die! 
, Come, nations of both continents, behold a 
I Land of Graves ! 



THE MEN OF TO-DAY. 



425 



Come, Russia, with Siberia! France, bring 
your galley slaves ! 

Come, leering Turk, with dripping knife, re- 
freshed in Christian gore 

Bashi-bazouk, hold up your head ! Be ye 
ashamed no more : 

O empires of a humane world ! hold this 
Christian nation. 

That makes her people paupers and grants 
them then — starvation ! 

MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 



OUR RECORD. 
Who casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on 

Irish fame, 
Who dreads to own his Irish blood or wear his 

Irish name. 
Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the 

clasp of Irish hands .'' 
Let us but raise the veil to-night and shame 

him where he stands. 

The Irish fame ! It rests enshrined within 
its own proud light. 

Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fash- 
ioned deeds of -might, 

From battle charge of Fontenoy to Grattan's 
thunder tone. 

It holds its storied past on high unstoried and 
alone. 

The Irish blood ! Its crimson tide has watered 

hill and plain 
Wherever there were wrongs to crush, or 

freemen's rights to gain ; 
No dastard thought, no coward fear, has held 

it tamely by 
When there were noble deeds to do, or noble 

deaths to die ! 

The Irish heart! The Irish heart! God keep 
it fair and free. 

The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth 
of honest glee, 

Its generous strength, its ardent faith, its un- 
complaining trust. 

Though every worshipped idol freaks and 
crumbles into dust. 

And Irish hands ? — ay, lift them up ; em- 
browned by honest toil, 

The champions of our western world, the 
guardians of the soil ; 



When flashed their battle-swords aloft, a 
waiting world might see 

What Irish hands could do and dare to keep 
a nation free. 

They bore our starry flag above through 

bastion, gate, and wall. 
They stood before the foremost rank, the 

bravest of them all ; 
.\nA when before the cannon's mouth they 

held the foe at bay, 
O never could old Ireland's heart beat prouder 

than that day. 

So when a craven fain would hide the birth- 
mark of his race, 

Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before their 
children's face, 

Breathe no weak word of scorn or shame, but 
crush him where he stands. 

With Irish worth and Irish fame as won by 
Irish hands. 

IMARV K. BLAK.E. 



THE MEN OF TO-DAY. 
There are some in our land who are ever 
despairing. 
Whose minds trace no glory except in the 
past. 
Whose eyes flash no fire and whose souls know 
no daring. 
Who tell us the Saxon has triumphed at last ; 
But, ah ! these are few — we have those who 
are stronger. 
Who unto these cravens give answer and 
say : 
To right our loved nation — to baffle her 
wronger — 
We've men as of old in dear Ireland to day. 

They would have us believe that men stalwart 
as Brian. 
As brave as those soldiers who drove out the 
Dane, 
As bold as Red Hugh, who had heart like a 
lion. 
Shall never be seen in our island again ; 
They say that the valor of Conn has departed, 
That prostrate and weak in the dust we must 
stay; 
But our answer is — No ! for men staunch and 
stout-heaited 
As ever have lived are in Ireland to-day. 



426 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



1 



These creatures despondent deny we inherit 
The strong iron nerve of Fitzgerald and 
Tone; 
And Emmet's pure manhood and Grattan's 
proud spirit 
They say from our countrj' for ever have 
flown. 
They libel their kinsmen while thus they are 
whining ; 
For us, we believe, let them shrink as they 
may. 
That courage lives on and that virtue is shining 
As brightly as ever in Ireland to-day. 

Yes, men with the strength and the faith of 
past ages 
Are here with us now marching towards 
the same end ; 
We've scholars and statesmen and soldiers and 
sages. 
With spirits no tyrant can conquer or bend : 
And ever till Ireland has worsted the spoilers, 
Till falls on her white brow blest Liberty's 
ray, 
Her cause will be championed by hosts of such 
toilers [to-day. 

As those who bear onward her banner 

DANIEL CRILLV. 



THE IRISHMAN. 
The savage loves his native shore. 

Though rude the soil and chill the air- 
Then well may Erin's sons adore 

Their isle which nature formed so fair 
What flood reflects a shore so sweet 

As Shannon great or pastoral Bann ? 
Or who a friend or foe can meet 

So generous as an Irishman .' 

His hand is rash, his heart is warm 

But honesty is still his guide ; 
None more repents a deed of harm, 

And none forgives with nobler pride ; 
He may be duped, but won't be dared — 

More fit to practice than to plan ; 
He dearly earns his poor reward. 

And spends it like an Irishman. 

If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, 
I And guide to where you safe may be ; 

If you're his guest, while e'er you stay, 
His cottage holds a jubilee. 



His inmost soul he will unlock. 
And if he may your secrets scan. 

Your confidence he scorns to mock. 
For faithful is an Irishman. 

Ry honor bound in woe or weal, 

Whate'er she bids he dares to do; 
Try him with bribes — they won't prevail ; 

Prove him in fire — you'll find him true. 
He seeks not safety, let his post 

Be where it ought in danger's van ; 
And if the field of fame be lost. 

It won't be by an Irishman. 

Erin, loved land, from age to age, 

Be thou more great, more famed and free ; 
May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wage 

Defensive war — cheap victor)'. 
May plenty bloom in evcrj' field. 

Which gentle breezes softly fan. 
And cheerful smiles serenely gild 

The home of every Irishman. 

JAMES ORR. 



OUR OWN AGAIN. 
Let the coward shrink aside. 

We'll have our own again ; 
Let the brawling slave deride. 

Here's for our own again ; 
Let the tyrant bribe and lie, 

March, threaten, fortify. 
Loose his lawyer and his spy. 

Yet we'll have our own again. 
Let him soothe in silken tone. 

Scold from a foreign throne ; 
Let him come with bugles blown. 

We shall have our own again. 
Let us to our purpose bide. 

We'll have our own again ; 
Let the game be fairly tried. 

We'll have our own again. 

Send the cr)' throughout the land, 

" Who's for our own again }" 
Summon all men to our band. — 

Why not our own again ? 
Rich, and poor, and old, and young. 

Sharp sword and fier)' tongue. 
Soul and sinew firmly strung. 

All tft get our own again. 
Brothers thrive by brotherhood — 

Trees in a stormy wood^ 



0. BLAME NOT THE BAUD. 427 


Riches come from Nationhood ; 


Might have bent a proud bow to the 


Sha'n't we have our own again ? 


warrior's dart ; 


Munster's woe is Ulster's bane ! 


And the lip which now breathes but the song 


Jcnn for our own again ; 


of desire. 


Tyrants rob as well as reign — 


Might have pour'd the full tide of the 


We'll have our own again. 


patriot's heart ! 


Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred, 


But, alas, for his country! her pride is gone by. 


" Rise for our own again ! " 


And that spirit is broken which never 


Often passed the signal word, 


would bend ; 


" Strike for our own again !" 


O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh. 


Rudely, rashly, and untaught. 


For 'tis treason to love her. and death to 


Uprose they, ere they ought. 


defend ! 


Failing, though they nobly fought. 


Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to 


Dying for their own again. 


betray ; 


Mind will rule and muscle yield 


Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame 


In senate, ship and field,— 


not their sires. 


When we've skill our strength to wield. 


And the torch that would light them thro' 


Let us take our own again. 


dignity's way, 


By the slave his chain is wrought. 


Must be caught from the pile where their 


'• Strive for our own again ; 


country expires! 


Thunder is less strong than thought — 




We'll have our own again ! 


Then blame not the Bard, if, in pleasure's 




soft dream, 


Calm as granite to our foes. 


He should try to forget what he never can 


Stand for our own again ; 


heal! 


Till his wrath to madness grows, 


Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 


Firm for our own again : 


Thro' the gloom of his countr}', and mark 


Bravely hope and wisely wait. 


how he'll feel ! 


Toil, join, and educate; 


That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay 


Man is master of his fate, — 


down 


We'll enjoy our own again. 


Ev'ry passion it nurs'd, ev'ry bliss it ador'd ; 


With a keen constrained thirst — 


While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his 


Powder's calm ere it burst — 


crown. 


Making ready for the worst, 


Like the wreath of Harmodius, should 


So we'll get our own again. 


cover his sword. 


Let us to our purpose bide. 




We'll have our own again ; 


But, tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade 


God is on the righteous side — 


away. 


We'll have our own again ! 


Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his 


THOMAS DAVI:-;. 


songs ; 




Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most 




gay. 




Will he lose the remembrance of thee and 


0, BLAME NOT THE BARD. 


thy wrongs ! 


0, blame not the Bard if he fly to the bowers. 


The stranger shall hear thy lament on his 


Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at 


plains ; 


fame; 


The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the 


He was born for much more, and, in happier 


deep. 


hours. 


Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy 


His soul might have burn'd with a holier 


chains. 


flame. 


Shall pause at the song of their captive. 


The string that now languishes loose o'er the 


and weep ! 


lyre. 


THOMAS MOORE. 



428 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



THE IRISH MINSTREL. 
I hear cold voices saying, that she. my queen, 

is dead, 
And those sad chords may nevermore their 

tones of music shed ; 
That I, who wildly loved her. must weep in 

mute despair — 
Ah! they Icnow not how true love will cling. 

though blight and death be there ! 

I have no joy or triumph to swell my minstrel 

lay. 
I have no hope to cheer me on the dark and 

lonely way ; 
But in this feeble soul there's still a might 

they dream not of. 
While living springs are in my breast of deep 

unswerving Love ! 

Yes, pale one. in thy sorrow — yes, wrong"d one, 
in thy pain. 

This heart has still a beat for thee— this trem- 
bling hand a strain ; 

They cannot steal the golden stores the past 
has left to me — 

Or make me shrink with broken faith. asthore 
machree, from thee ! 

O! hear — my darling, hear me! — 'tis no cold 

pulse meets thine own, 
Its burning throbs would warm to life, an' 

thou wcrt changed to stone : 
I'll call the color to thy cheek, the light into 

thine eye — 
I know at least if thou art dead my love can 

luiier die ! 

'Twould make the air around thee warm with 

breath of living flame. 
In life or death, or joy or woe. 'twill cling to 

thee the same — 
No — never in the gladdest hour, when thou 

wert proud and strong. 
Was deeper worship pour'd than now in this 

low mourning song. 

1 knelt before you long ago, when a crown 

was on your brow, 
I lov'd you then with fervent love — I love 

you firmer now ; 
And that which makes the ivy green around 

the mould'ring tree — 
Will make my voice all tuneful still, asthore 

machree. for thee ! 

EVA MARY KKLLV. 



THE MINSTREL BOY. 
The Minstrel Hoy to the war is gone. 

In the ranks of death you'll find him. 
His father's sword he has girded on. 

And his wild harp slung behind him. 
■' Land of Song ! " said the warrior-bard. 

" Tho" all the world betrays thee. 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee I " 

The Minstrel fell !— but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring that proud soul under ; 
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee. 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery." 

IHO.MAb MOORE. 



' DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY, 

, Dear harp of my countrj', in darkness I 
found thee. 
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee 
long. 
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I un- 
bound thee. 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, 
and song ; 
j The warm lay of love and the light note of 
gladness 
Havewaken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; 
But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of 
sadness. 
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee 
still. 

Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy 
numbers. 
The sweet wreath of song is the last we 
shall twine ; 
Go — sleep, with the sunshine of fame on thy 
slumbers. 
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy 
than mine. 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover. 

Has throbb'd at our lay.'twasthy glory alone; 
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. 
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy 
I own. 

I THOMAS MOORE. 



ERIN'S FLAG. 



429 



ERIN'S FLAG. 



Unroll Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze ! 
Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the 

seas; 
Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of 

yore. 
When the chiefs with their clans stood around 

it and swore 
That never — no ! — never, while God gave them 

life. 
And they had an arm and a sword for the 

strife, 
That never — no ! — never, that Banner would 

yield 
As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; 
While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to 

wield. 
And his last drop of blood was unshed on the 

field. 

Lift it up ! wave it high! 'tis as bright as of 

old! 
Not a stain on its Green, not a blot on its 

Gold, 
Though the woes and the wrongs of three 

hundred long years 
Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and 

with tears; 
Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it 

in gloom, 
And around it the thunders of tyranny boom. 
Look aloft ! look aloft ! lo, the clouds drifting 

by! 
There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a 

light in the sky. 
'Tis the sunburst resplendent ! far-flashing on 

high! 
Erin's dark night is waning, her daj'-dawn is 

nigh! 

Lift it up! lift it up! the old banner of 

green ! 
The blood of its sons has but brightened its 

sheen ! 
What though the tyrant has trampled it down ? 
Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of 



What though for ages it droops in the dust ? 
] Shall it droop thus for ever ? No ! no ! God is 

just ! 
I Take it up ! take it up from the tyrant's foul 
I tread, 

Let him tear the green flag ! we will snatch 
its last shred. 



And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers 

bled. 
And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of 

our dead, 
And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton 

has shed, 
And we'll vow by the wrecks which through 

Erin he spread. 
And we'll swear by the thousands who, 

famished, unfed, 
Died down in the ditches — wild howling for 

bread. 
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits 

have fled, 
And we'll swear by the bones in each coflSnless 

bed. 
That we'll battle the Briton through danger 

and dread — 
That we'll cling to the cause which we glory 

to wed, 
Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of 

our lead 
Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we 

said — 
That we'll lift up the Green and tear down the 

Red. 

Lift up the Green Flag ! oh ! it wants to go 

home; 
Full long h.-is its lot been to wander and 

roam ; 
It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the 

world. 
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded 

nor furled ; 
Like a weary-winged bird, to the east and the 

west. 
It has flitted and fled — but it never shall 

rest. 
Till pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the 

main. 
And speeds to the shores of its old home 

again, 
Where its fetterless folds, o'er each mountain 

and plain. 
Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. 

Take it up — take it up ! bear it back from 

afar — 
That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of 

war; 
Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to 

the sky 
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or 

die I 



4oO 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the ! 

earth, I 

To join in iht- march to the land of their , 

birth; 
And wherever the exiles, 'neath Heaven's 
i broad dome, 

Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam. 
They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the j 

foam. 
They'll sail to the music of " Home, Sweet 

Home I" 

ABRA"M .1. KVAX. 



THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 



THE GREEN AND THE GOLD. 
In the soft, blooming vales of our countrj'. 

Two colors shine brightest of all. 
O'er mountain, and moorland, and meadow. 

On cottage and old castle wall ; 
They shine in the gay summer garden, 
And glint in the depths of the wold. 
And they gleam on the banner of Ireland, 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold ! 

Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold ! 
By the fresh winds of Freedom outrolled, 
As they shine on the brave Irish banner. 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 

In the days of Fomorian and Fenian, 

These colors flashed bright in the ray; 
And their gleam kept the fierce Roman eagles 

In Rome-conquered Britain at bay; 
When Conn fought his hundred red battles, 

And the lightning struck Daithi of old. 
As he bore through Helvetia's wild gorges 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold. 

Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold I 
May they flourish for ages untold. 
May they blaze in the vanguard of freedom. 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 

In these dark days of doom and disaster, 

Is it dead, the old love for our land? 
Are our bosoms less brave than our fathers'. 

Comes the sword-hilt less deft to our hand ? 
No 1 we've proved us the wide world over 

Wherever war's surges have rolled. 
And we'll raise once again in Old Ireland 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold I 

Then hurrah for the Green and the Gold I 
And hurrah for the valiant and bold 
Who will raise them supreme in Old Ireland, 
Our colors, the Green and the Gold 1 ; 

ROBERT DWVER JOYCE. 



Full often when our fathers saw the Red above 

the Green. 
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, 

pike, and skian. 
And over many a noble town, and many a 

field of dead. 
They proudly set the Irish Green above the 

English Red. 

But, in the end, throughout the land, the 

shameful sight was seen — 
The English Red in triumph high above the 

Irish Green ; 
But well they died, in breach and field, who, 

as their spirits fled. 
Still saw the Green maintain its place above 

the English Red. 

And they who saw, in after times, the Red 

above the Green, 
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath 

a forest screen ; 
Vet often by this healthy hope their sinking 

hearts were fed, 
That, n some day to come, the Green should 

flutter o'er the Red. 

Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and 

Wolfe Tone sunk serene — 
Because they could not bear to leave the Red 

above the Green ; 
KnA 'twas for this that Owen fought, and 

Sarsfield nobly bled — 
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green 

above the Red. 

So, when the strife began again, our darling 

Irish Green 
Was down upon the earth, while high the 

English Red was seen ; 
Yet still we held our learless course, for some-. 

thing in us said. 
" Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green 

above the Red." 



And 'tis for this we think and toil, and 

knowledge strive to glean, 
That we may pull the English Red below the 

Irish Green, 
.And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling 

plenty spread 
."Vbove the land once dark with blood — the 

Green above the Red ! 



UP FOR THE GREEX. 



431 



The jealous English tyrant now has banned 

the Irish Green, 
And forced us to conceal it like a something 

foul and mean ; 
But yet, by heavens! he'll sooner raise his 

victims from the dead 
Than force our hearts to leave the Green and 

cotton to the Red. 

We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and 

blesses those who lean 
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly 

king or queen ; 
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our 

blood to shed 
Once and forevermore to raise the Green 

above the Red ! 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



THE GREEN FLAG. 
The Green Flag — the Green Flag ! oh. would 

that it flew 
As proudly in the Old Land as 'tis flying m 

the New ! 
For West and South give honored place 

unto its radiant sheen. 
And our exiles build their homes beneath the 

banner of the Green ! 
Oh, the South loves the Green, for the sum- 
mer's shining there. 
While here the winter, dim and cold, is dark 

as our despair. 
And the numbing snow-drifts cover every 

path where once was seen 
The pride and promise of the spring, — the 

glor)' of the Green. 

Once gallant hands upheld the flag, and hearts 

were throbbing high 
With fier)' love that deemed it joy for that 

dear cause to die; 
Now strangers mock its drooping folds, and 

scorning pass it by. 
While round it swells no battle -song, but 

slavery's feeble sigh. 
Oh, the West loves the Green, for her sun is 

high and fair. 
And her silver stars shine brightly down 

through Freedom's azure air ; 
But here no ray of sun or star yet lights the 

dreary scene. 
And night-clouds hide our joy and pride — 

the beauty of the Green. 



Alas, alas for Eire I — oh, the friends are faint 

and few 
That still guard round the emblem of her 

spirit bright and true ; 
Yet day by day some shrink away, or turn 

their hearts and eyes 
To where the Green is waving free beneath 

the Southern skies ; 
But sure as God renews again the glory of the 

year, 
Our winter yet shall pass away — the summer 

shall be here ! 
'Neath gloom and snow revives the glow in 

Eire's breast, I ween. 
And faithful lovers yet shall twine fresh gar- 
lands of the Green ! 

ULIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 



UP FOR THE GREEN. 

..-/ Song of the United Iris/iiiien. 

'Tis the green — oh ! the green is the color of 

the true. 
And we'll back it 'gainst the orange, and we'll 

raise it o'er the blue I 
For the color of our Fatherland alone should 

here be seen — 
'Tis the color of the martyred dead — our own 
immortal green. 
Then up for the green, boys, and up for 

the green ; 
Oh ! 'tis down in the dust, and a shame 

to be seen ; 
But we've hands, — oh ! we've hands, boys, 

full strong enough, I ween. 
To rescue and to raise again our own im- 
mortal green ! 

They may say they have power it is vain to 

oppose — 
That 'tis better to obey and live, than surely 

die as foes; 
But we scorn all their threats, boys, whatever 

they may mean ; 
For we trust the God above us, and we dearly 
love the green. 
So, we'll up for the green, and we'll up for 

the green ! 
O ! to die is far better than be curst as we 

have been ; 
And we've hearts I — O, we've hearts, boys, 

full true enough, I ween. 
To rescue and to raise again our own im- 
mortal green ! 



432 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



They may swear, as they often did, our wretch- 
edness to cure ; 
But well never trust John Bull again, nor let 

his lies allure. 
No, we won't — no. we won't, Bull, nor now 

nor evermore I 
For we've hopes on the ocean, and we've trust 
on the shore. 
Then up for the green, boys, and up for 

the g^een I 
Shout it back to the Sassanach, " We'll 

never sell the green ! " 
For our Tone is coming back, and with 

men enough, I ween. 
To rescue and avenge us and our own 
immortal green. 

DENNV LANE. 



THE WEARING OF THE GREEN, 
O brothers dear, and did you hear the news 

that's goin' round? 
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish 

ground ; 
No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep, its color 

can't be seen. 
For there's a bloody law agcn the wearing of 

the green. 
O, I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me 

by the hand, 
And he says. How's poor old Ireland, and how- 
does she stand ? 
She's the most distressful country that ever 

yet was seen, 
They're hanging men and women for the 

wearing of the green. 

Then since the color we must wear is England's 

cruel red. 
Old Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood 

that they have shed. 
You may take the shamrock from your hat, 

and cast it on the sod. 
It will take root and flourish still, though 

under foot 'tis trod. 
When the law can stop the blades of grass 

from growing as they grow. 
And when the leaves in summer-time their 

verdure dare not show, 
Then 1 will change the color that I wear in 

my caubeen. 
But till that day, please God, I'll slick to 

wearing of the green. 



And if at last her color should be torn from 

Ireland's heart. 
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the 

dear old land will part. 
I've heard whispers of a country that lies far 

beyond the sea. 
Where the rich and poor stand equal in the 

light of freedom's day. 
O Erin ! must we leave you, driven by the 

tyrant's hand.' 
Must we seek a mother's blessing from a 

strange but happier land.' 
Where the cruel cross of England's thraldom 

never shall be seen. 
But where, please God I well live and die. 

still wearing of the green. 

DION BUUCICAULT. 



.THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. 
One blessing on my native isle, one curse upon 

her foes I 
While yet her skies above me smile, her breeze 

around me blows: 
Now. never more my cheek be wet ; nor sigh, 

nor altered mien 
Tell the dark tyrant I regret the Wearing of 

the Green. 

Sweet land ! my parents loved you well : they 
sleep within your breast; 

With theirs — for love no words can tell — my 
bones must never rest ; 

And lonely must my true love stray, that was 
our village queen. 

When I am banished far away for the Wear- 
ing of the Green. 

But. Mar)', dry that bitter tear, 'twould break 

my heart to see ; 
And sweetly sleep, my parents dear, that 

cannot weep for me. 
I'll think not of my distant tomb, nor seas 

rolled wide between. 
But watch the hour, that yet will come, for 

the Wearing of the Green. 

Oh I I care not for the thistle, and I care not 

for the rose. 
For when the cold winds whistle, neither down 

nor crimson shows; 
But. like hope to him that's friendless, where 

no gaudy flower is seen. 
By our graves, with love that's endless, waves 

our own true-hearted Green. 



THE GERALDINES. 



433 



Oh ! sure God's world was wide enough, and ' When from their full and genial hearts an 



And 



plentiful for all ! 
lined cabins were no stuff to build a 

lordly hall ! 
They might have let the poor man live, yet all 

as lordly been ; 
But heaven its own good time will give for 

the Wearing of the Green. 

HENRV GRATTAN CURRAN. 



THE GERALDINES. 
The Geraldines — the Geraldines; — 'tis full a 

thousand years 
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright 

flashed their battle-spears ; 
When Capet seized the crown of France, their 

iron shields were known, 
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the 

flanks of the Garonne ; 
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred 

hard by William's side. 
And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem 

blood they dyed ; — 
But never then, nor thence, till now, has 

falsehood or disgrace 
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle 

in his face. 

The Geraldines — the Geraldines 1 — 'tis true in 

Strongbow's van, 
By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish 

reign began ; 
And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they 

proved their prowess stern. 
In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on 

king, and chief, and kerne ; 
But noble was the cheer within the halls so 

rudely won, 
And gen'rous was the steel-gloved hand that 

had such slaughter done ; 
How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, 

you'd ask no herald's sign — 
Among a thousand you had known the 

princely Gerald ine 

These Geraldines — these Geraldines! — not 

long our air they breath'd ; 
Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water 

seethed ; 
Not often had their children been by Irish 

mothers nursed. 



Irish feeling burst ! 
The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, 

and force, and bribe. 
To win from Irish thoughts and ways this 

" more than Irish " tribe ; 
For still they clung to fosterage, to brehon, 

cloak, and bard ; 
What king dare say to Geraldine: "Your 

Irish wife discard "? 

Ye Geraldines — ^ye Geraldines! — how royally 

ye reigned 
O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and 

English arts disdained ; 
Your sword made knights, your banner waved, 

free was your bugle call 
By Glyn's green slopes, and Dingle's tide, 

from Barrow's banks to Youglial. 
What gorgeous shrines, what brehon lore, 

what minstrel feats there were 
In and around Maynooth's grey keep, and 

palace-filled Adare ! 
But not for rite or feast ye stay'd, when friend 

or kin were press'd ; 
And foemen fled, when " Croin abo " bespoke 

your lance in rest. 

Ye Geraldines — yc Geraldines ! — since Silken 

Thomas flung 
King Henry's sword on council board, the 

English thanes among, 
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the 

English sway. 
Though ax and brand and treachery your 

proudest cut away. 
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins 

passed on th' exhausted tide ; 
His title lives — a Saxon churl usurps the lion's 

hide; 
And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's 

ruin at the root. 
Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such 

a tree no fruit.' 

True Geraldine! brave Geraldine! — as tor- 
rents mould the earth. 

You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by 
constancy and worth ; 

When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish 
soldiers gazed 

To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's 
banner blazed ! 

And still it is the peasant's hope upon the 
Curragh's mere. 



434 



rCE^fS OF PATK/OT/SM. 



" They live, who'll see ten thousand men with ! Beside these grey old pillars, how perishing 

good Lord Edward here " i and weak 

So let them dream till brighter days, when. The Roman's arch of triumph, and the tem{>le 



not by Edward's shade. 



of the Greek ; 



But by some leader true as he. their lines shall .\n6 the gold domes of Byzantium, and the 



be arrayed ! 

These Geraldines— these Geraldinesl — rain 

wears away the rock. 
And time may wear away the tribe that stood 

the battle's shock 



pointed Gothic spires.- 
All are gone, one by one. but the temples of 
our sires 

The column, with its capital, is level with the 
dust. 



Tj . u-i ' • I f. „f „n .i,„. I ■'^nd the proud halls of the mighty and the 

But ever, sure, while one is left of all that [ '^ , , , , . 

calm homes of the just ; 

For the proudest works of man, as certainly, 



honored race, 
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzger- 
ald's place. 



but slower, 
the grass 
mower I 



And. though the last were dead and gone, ^"^^ ^'^^ ^'"^ &^«^f ''^ ^^e sharp scythe of the 
1 /T ij J ^ mower! 

how many a field and town, ■■. . .... 

From Thomas Court to Abbcyfeale. would i '^"' ^''"^ ^'^^^_, 8^°** ^*'" *''«" '" '"^J^^y 

' and mirth. 

On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess 
of the Earth ; 
shone as did the '^"^ ^""^ '"*" '" ^^^^ world no spring-tide e'er 
returns 

To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his 
urns! 



cherish their renown ! 
And men would say of valor's rise 

power's decline, 
" ' Twill never soar, it 

Geraldine." 



The Geraldines — the Geraldines ! — and are 

there any fears 
Within the sons ot conquerors for full a thou- 
sand years ? 
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed 

with martyr's blood ? 
Or has that grown a purling brook, which 

long rushed down a flood ? — 
By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by 

clan and keep laid low, — 
By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by Sainted 

Edward,— No ! 
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the 

Irish line 

COMMAXK THi:iK SOX lOTAKE IHE PDSl THAT 

Firs THE Geraldine! 

Thomas Davis. 



THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. 



The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously 

they stand 
By the lakes and rushing rivers, through the And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the 



Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of 

Nile, 
And the old mj-stic temples of] our own dear 

isle; 
As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon 

has its nest. 
Thus time o'er Egj'pt's tombs and the temples 

of the West ! 
The names of their founders have vanished 

in the gloom, 
Like the dry branch in the fire or the body 

in the tomb ; 
But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they 

cast — 
These temples of forgotten gods — these relics 

of the past ! 

.\round these walls ha\e wandered the Briton 

and the Dane— 
The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of 

Spain — 
Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering 

Norman Peers — 



valleys of 



chiefs of later vears! 



In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their How many different rites have these grey old 



heads sublime. 



temples known.' 



These grey old pillar temples — these con- To the mind what dreams are written in these 



querors of time! 



chronicles of stone I 



THE CELTS. 



435 



What terror and what error, what gleams of Cromah, their Day-God and their Thunderer, 
love and truth. Made morning and eclipse ; 

Ha\e flashed from these walls since the world ; Bride was their Queen of Song, and unto her 
was in its youth ? They prayed with fire-touched lips. 



He e blazed the sacred fire, and when the sun 

was gone. 
As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; 
And the warm blood of the victim ha\-e these 

grey old temples drunk. 
And the death-song of the Druid and the 

matin of the Monk. 
Here was placed the holy chalice that held 

the sacred wine, 
.\nd the gold cross from the altar, and the 

relics from the shrine. 
And the mitre shining brighter with its 

diamonds than the East. 
And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the \'est- 

ments of the Priest ! 

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the 

vesper bell. — 
Wliere the fugitive found shelter became the 

hermit's cell ; 
And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent 

and good. 
For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed 

summit stood. 
There may it stand forever, while this symbol 

doth impart 
To the mind one glorious vision or one proud 

throb to the heart ; 
While the breast needeth rest, may these grey 

old temples last. 
Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of 

the past I 

DENIS FLORENCE liCCARTHV. 



THE CELTS. 
Long, long ago, beyond the misty space 

Of twice a thousand years, 
In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race. 

Taller than Roman spears ; 
Like oaks and towers they had a giant grace. 

Were fleet as deers ; [place. 

With winds and waves they made their 'biding 

These western shepherd seers. 

Their ocean God was Man-a-man-McLir. 

Whose angry lips. 
In their white foam, full often would inter 

Whole fleets of ships; 



Great were their deeds, their passions and their 
sports ; 

With clay and stone [forts 

They piled on strath and shore those mystic 

Not yet o'erthrown ; [courts. 

On cairn-crowned hills they held their council 

While youths alone 
With giant dogs, explored the elk resorts, 

And brought them down. 

Of these was Fin, the father of the Bard, 

Whose ancient song 
Over the clamor of all change is heard, 

Sweet-voic'd and strong. 
Fin once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair d. 

The fleet and young; 
From her the lovely, and from him the fcur'd, 

The primal poet sprung. 

Ossian ! two thousand years of m ist and change 

Surround thy name — 
Thy Finian heroes now no longer range 

The hills of fame. 
The very name of Fin and Gaul sound strange. 

Yet thine the same — 
By miscalled lake and desecrated grange — 

Remains, and shall remain ! 

The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed 
We scarce can trace. 

There is not left an undisputed deed 
Of all your race. 

Save your majestic song, which hath their 
speed 
And strength and grace ; 

In that sole song they live and love, and 
bleed- 
It bears them on thro' space. 

O. inspir'd giant! shall we e'er behold. 

In our own time. 
One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, 

Or seize your rhyme? 
One pupil of the past, as mighty soul'd 

As in the prime. 
Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold — 

They, of your song sublime ! 

THOMAS D'aRCY MCGEK. 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



LAMENT FOR BANBA. 
*>, my land ! O, my love ! 
What a woe, and how deep. 
Is thy death to my long mourning soul! 
God alone, God above, 

Can awake thee from sleep, 
Can release thee from bondage and dole I 
Alas, alas, and alas. 
For the once proud f)coplc of Banba ! 

As a tree in its prime. 

Which the axe layeth low, 
Didst thou fall, O, unfortunate land ! 
Not by Time, nor thy crime, 
Came the shock and the blow. 
They were given by a false felon hand ! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 
For the once proud people of Banba 1 

O. my grief of all griefs 
Is to see how thy throne 
Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall! 
Other lands have their chiefs. 
Have their kings, thou alone 
Art a wife, yet a widow withal ! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 

The high house of O'Neill 
Is gone down to the dust. 
The O'Brien is clanless and banned ; 
And the steel, the red steel. 
May no more be the trust 
Of the Faithful and Brave in the land ! 
Alas. alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba I 

True, alas ! Wrong and wrath 
Were of old all too rife ; 
Deeds were done which no good man admires ; 
And perchance Heaven hath 
Chastened us for the strife 
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires. 
Alas. alas, and alas. 
For the once proud people of Banba ! 

But no more ! This our doom. 
While our hearts are yet warm, 
Let us not over-weakly deplore; 
For the hour may soon loom 
When the Lord's mighty hand 
Shall be raised for our rescue once more : 

And our grief shall be turned into joy 
For the still proud people of Banba. 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
From the Irish. 



THE CELTIC TONGUE. 
'Tis fading, oh, 'tis fading ! like leaves upon 

the trees! 
In murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail 

upon the breeze ! 
'Tis swiftly disappearing, as footprints on the 

shore 
Where the Barrow, and the Erne, and Loch 

Swilly's waters roar — 
Where the parting sunbeam kisses Loch 

Corrib in the West. 
And Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon 

to her breast, 
The language of old Erin, of her history and 

name — 
Of her monarchs and her heroes — her glory 

and her fame — 
The sacred shrine where rested, thro' sunshine 

and thro' gloom. 
The spirit of her martyrs, as their bodies in 

the tomb. 
The time-wrought shell, where murmur'd, 

'mid centuries of wrong. 
The secret voice of Freedom in annal and in 

song — [last. 

Is slowly, surely sinking, into silent death at 
To live but in the memories of those who 

lo\'e the Past. 



Ah ! magic Tongue, that round us wove its 

spells so soft and dear! 
.•\h ! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were 

as music to the ear! 
Ah ! glorious Tongue, whose accents could 

each Celtic heart enthrall ! 
Ah ! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the 

swollen torrent's fall ! 
The Tongue, that in the Senate was lightning 

flashing bright, — 
Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in 

its might ! 
That Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall 

poured loud the minstrel lay. 
As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old is silent there 

to-day! 
That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe 

at Kong and Mullaghmast, 
Like those who nobly perished there is num- 
bered with the Past! 

The Celtic Tongue is passing, and we stand 

coldly by 
Without a pang within the heart, a tear withm 

the eye — 



THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE. 



437 



Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one 

effort made to save 
The Language of our Fathers from dark 

obhvion's grave! 
O, Erin ! vain your efforts — your prayers for 

Freedom's crown, 
Whilst offered in the language of the foe 

that clove it down ; 
Be sure that tyrants ever, with an art from 

darkness sprung. 
Would make the conquered nation slaves 

alike in limb and tongue ; 
Russia's great Czar ne'er stood secure o'er 

Poland's shatter'd frame. 
Until he trampled from her heart the tongue 

that bore her name. 
O, Irishmen, be Irish still ! stand for the dear 

old tongue 
Which as ivy to a ruin, to your native land 

has clung! 
O, snatch this relic from the wreck! the only 

and the last, 
And cherish in your heart of hearts, the 

language of the Past ! 

MICHAEL MULLIN. 



THE MONKS OF ERIN. 
The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their 

names are treasured still 
In many a foreign valley, on many a foreign 

hill. 
Their preaching, prayers, and fasting are still 

the peasants' themes 
Around the coast of Cornwall, and along old 

Flanders' streams ; 
Their lives austere and holy, and the wonders 

of their hands. 
Still nourish faith and sanctity through fair 

Italia's lands, 
The cross they bore in triumph still bright as 

ever shines 
Above the domes of Austria, among the Tus- 
can vines. 

Quaint Mechlin's noblest temple to an Irish 

monk is raised, 
In every home in Mechlin St. Rumold's name 

is praised ; 
Virgilius, the gifted, in his glorious Saltzburgh 

tomb, 
Is honored by the silent prayer and by the 

cannon's boom; 



Old hymns are sung to Fridolin in the islands 
of the Rhine, 

And the relics of Besancjon's saint sleep in a 
silver shrine; 

The voice that roused Crusaders by the Tagus, 
Rhone and Po, 

Seems ringing still o'er Malachy at the con- 
vent of Clairvaux. 

The Irish monks, the Irish monks, their spirit 

still survives 
In the stainless Church of Ireland, and in her 

priesthood lives. 
Their spirit still doth linger round Holy Cross 

and Kells— 
Oh, Ireland's monks can know no death while 

gush our holy wells. 
High Cashel's fane is standing, and though 

in the spoiler's hand, 
Like the captive ark of Judah, 'tis a blessing 

to our land, 
For proudly it reminds us of the palmy days 

of yore, 
When kings were monks and monks were 

kings, upon our Irish shore. 

WILLIAM p. TREACY. 



THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE. 
Athunree ! Athunree ! * 
Erin's heart, it broke on thee! 
Ne'er till then in all its woe 
Did that heart its hope forego. 
Save a little child — but one — 
The last regal race is gone, 
Roderick died again on thee 

Athunree ! 

Athunree ! Athunree ! 
A hundred years and forty-three 
Winter-winged and black as night. 
O'er the land had tracked their flight ; 
In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed 
Roderick raised once more his head ;— 
Fedlini flood-like rushed to thee, 
Athunree ! 

Athunree! Athunree! 
The light that struggled sank on thee ! 
Ne'er since Cathal the red-handed, 
Such a host till then was banded. 



* Athenry-- 
ed over that . 
the divisions 



orman power at last triumph- 
lad long been enfeebled by 
f O'Connor. 



438 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Long-haired Kerne and Galloglass 
Met the Norman face to face ; 
The saffron standard floated far 
O'er the on-rolling wave of war; 
Bards the onset sang oer thee, 
Athunree. 

Athunrec! Athunree! 
The poison tree took root on thee ! 
What might naked breasts avail 
'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribbed mail ? 
Of our Princes twenty-nine. 
Bulwarks fair of Connor's line. 
Of our clansmen thousands ten. 
Slept on thy red ridges. Then — 
Then the night caflie down on thee, 
Athunree ! 

Athunree! Athunree! 
Strangely shone that moon on thee ! 
Like the lamp of them that tread 
Staggering o'er the heaps of dead. 
Seeking that they fear to see. 
O that widows' wailing sore ! 
On it rang to Oranmore ; 
Died, they say, among the piles 
That make holy Arran's isles ; 
It was Erin wept on thee, 
Athunree ! 

Athunree! Athunree! 
The heart of Erin burst on thee! 
Since that hour some unseen hand 
On her forehead stamps the brand . 
Her children ate that hour the fruit 
That slays manhood at the root ; 
Our warriors are not what they were ; 
Our maids no more are blithe and fair ; 
Truth and honor died on thee, 
Athunree ! 

Athunree ! Athunree ! 
Never harvest waves o'er thee! 
Never sweetly breathing kine 
Pant o'er golden meads of thine! 
Barren be thou as a tomb ; 
May the night-bird haunt thy gloom. 
And the wailer from the sea. 
Athunree ! 

Athunree ! Athunree ! 
All my heart is sore fo thee : 
It was Erin died on thoo. 
Athunree ! 

AUUREV T. DE VERE. 



CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. 
I walked entranced 

Through a land of Morn ; 
Tlie sun. with wondrous excess of light. 
Shone down and glanced 
Over seas of corn. 
And lustrous gardens left and right. 
Even in the clime 
Of resplendent Spain 
Beams no such sun upon such a land; 
But it was the time, 
'Twas in the reign. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 



Anon stood nigh 
By my side a man 
Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
Him queried I ; 

"Oil. my lord and khan. 
What clime is this and what golden time?" 
When he : " The clime 
Is a clime to praise. 
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 
And it is the time. 
These be the days. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand." 

Then I saw thrones. 
And circling fires, 
.\nd a dome 'rose near me as by a sjiell. 
Whence flowed the tones 
Of silver lyres. 
And many voices in wreathed swell ; 
And their thrilling chime 
Fell on mine ears 
As the heavenly-hymn of an angel band— 
•• It is now the time. 
These be the years. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. " 



1 sought the hall. 
And, behold! — a change: 
From light to darkness, from joy to woe 
King, nobles, all, 

Looked aghast and strange ; 
Tlic minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! 
Had some great crime 
Wrought this dread amaze. 
This terror ? None seemed to understand ! 
Twas then the time. 
We were in the days. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 



THE SHAM VAN VOCHT. 



I again walked forth ; 
But lo ! the sky 
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien si 
Glared from the north. 
And there stood on high, 
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton! 
It was by the stream 
Of the castled Maine, 
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land. 
That I dreamed this dream 
Of the time and reign 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



FREEDOM. 
Most glorious Freedom, from the heavens, oh. 

hear! 
The prostrate world in bitter anguish groans, — 
Hurl o'er our hills thy fetter-breaking spear, — 
Speak with the loudest stormy trumpet- 
tones, — 
Dash the earth's tyrants from their gory 

thrones ! 
Hark to the mighty music of her wings. 
Rushing in .thunder from the starry zones; 
On broken bonds she treads, and crownless 

kings. 
And o'er the new-born world a dazzling glory 
flings. 

Oh ! //loii hast been my muse. From thy bright 

eyes. 
Freedom, I drew the minstrel's lonely lore — 
For thee, my wing first dared the poet's skies, 
And since in dreams 1 wooed thee first of yore. 
Each hour my soul would clasp thee more and 

more ; 
With clearer worship now 1 bend the knee. 
Queen of my love ! thy cloudy shrine before ; 
Abhorring chains, and panting to be free, 
My kindling soul invokes immortal liberty. 

Arise. Columbia ! bright in all the stars ! 
Hail to young Freedom's constellated flag! 
As the past have been, ever be thy wars, 
Ju.'st and successful ! O'er thine eagle's crag 
Ne'er shall an alien pirate's " motley rag" 
Flutter triumphant. From thy chainless shore 
The old-world harlot.red and murderous hag — 
The nightmare of the sea — returns no more ; 
Or, thunder-blasted, flies as she hath fled 
before. 



439 



See yonder human devil stand alone, [flame. 
Grasping with desperate hand, 'mid circling 
The crackling fragments of her blazingthrone ; 
While hatred, terror, baflied rage, and shame. 
Distort her features and convulse her frame ! 
Her snake eyes glitter, and her white lips 

foam — 
Traitress! erewhile earth trembled at thy 

name. 
But now thy blood-sapped cannon-bristling 

home 
Around thee falls in ruins, crashing dome on 

dome. 

Thus may all tyrants perish ! But thy throne, 
Aventine goddess! child of the Most High ! 
Like a huge rock in stormy seas alone. 
Fixed as the basis of thy native sky, 
Shall see them, at thy feet, unpitied die. 
And then shall be, O daughter of the Lord, 
From ransomed" nations jubilant a cry 
Of joy and triumph to thy saving sword. 
And thou shalt be thenceforth eternally 
adored. 

RICH \V.Xi DALTON WILLIAMS. 



THE SHAN VAN VOCHT.* 
O. the French are on the sea, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
The French are on the sea, 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
O, the French are in the Bay, 
They'll be here without delay, 
And the Orange will decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
O. the French are in the Bay. 
They'll be here by break of day, 
And the Orange will decay. 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And where will they have their camp; 

-Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Where will they have their camp.' 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
On the Curragh of Kildare. 
The boys they will be there. 
With their pikes in good repair, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
To the Curragh of Kildare. 
The boys they will repair. 
And Lord Edward will be there, 
Says the Shan Van Vocht 



440 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



Tlii-n what will the yeomen do? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht; 
What ■u-i// the yeomen do ? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What s/ii>i//(/ \.\\c yeomen do, 
But throw off the red and blue, 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht? 
What s/iimM the yeomen do, 
But throw off the red and tlue. 
And swear that they'll be true 
To the Shan Van Vocht? 

And what color will they wear? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
What color will they wear? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What color should be seen 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 
But their own immortal Green? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
What color should be seen 
Where our fathers' homes have been. 
But their own immortal (irccn ? 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

And will Ireland then be free? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
Will Ireland then be free? 

Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
Yes! Ireland shall be free 
From the centre to the sea. 
Then hurrah for Liberty ! 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
■V'es ! Ireland shall be free. 
From the centre to the sea. 
Then hurrah for Liberty I 
Says the Shan Van Vocht. 

AXONV.MCIIS. 



THE FELONS OF OUR LAND, 
Fill up once more, we'll drink a toast 

To comrades far away— 
No nation upon earth can boast 

Of braver hearts than they. 
And though they sleep in dungeons deep. 

Or flee, outlawed and banned. 
We love them yet, we can't forgci 

The felons of our land ! 



I And, brothers. ?ay, shall wc to-day 
llnmoved, like cowards, stand. 
Whilst traitors shame, and foes r'cfame 
The felons of our land ? 

Some in the convict's dreary cell 

Have found a living tomb. 
And some unseen, unfriended, fell 

Within the dungeon's gloom ! 
Yet. what care we. although it be 

Trod by a ruffian band — 
God bless the clay where rest lo-d;;y 

The felons of our land I 

Let cowards sneer and tyrants frown. 

Oh, little do we care— 
A felon's cap's the noblest crown 

Am Irish head can wear! 
.And ever)' Gael in Innisfail 
(Who scorns the serf's vile brand). 
I From Lee to Boyne. would gladly join 
j The felons of our land I 

AKTHUk M. KDRRE-SltR. 



In boyhood's bloom and manhood';; 

Foredoomed by alien laws. 
Some on the scaffold proudly died 

For holy Ireland's cause. 



I)ride, 



TOAST-SONG. 
The dauntless soul of Ireland, 

Through centuries of woe. 
Has never shrunk for one brief hour 
From combat with the foe; 
And still unawed 
By force or fraud 
It cleaves unto the right : — 
The dauntless soul of Ireland, 
Come, toast with me to-night. 

The fearless heart of Ireland 

Has never lost its hope. 
Or throbbed in terror as it braved 
The dungeon, axe, or rope ; 
And stout and hold 
Now as of old. 
It beats in Freedom's fight ; — 
The fearless heart of Ireland. 
Come, toast with me to-night. 

The willing hands of Ireland 

Upheld the nation's flag. 
When Libeuy's bright sunlight gleamed 
On ever)' mountain crag. 

And clenched this hou:'. 
With passion-power 
They still have strength to smite ; — 
The willing hands of Ireland. 
Come, toast with me to-night. 



THE PEOPLE'S CHIEF. 



441 



The deathless cause of Ireland 
Has lived through many ills, 
And dauntless souls, and fearless hearts, 
Strong hands and stubborn wills, 
Are linked to-day 
To force their way, 
Through gloom to Freedom's light: — 
The deathless cause of Ireland, 
Come, drink with me to-night. 

DANIEL CRILLY. 



OUR OWN GREEN ISLE. 
Come, chime a song with me for our own green 

isle. 
For bright and fairto see is ourown green isle ; 
And down from times of old, 
As the ages on have rolled. 
There were true hearts brave and bold in our 
own green isle. 

To many lands a light was our own green isle. 
For learning's lamp shone bright in our own 
green isle ; 
And filled with godlike powers, 
Saint and sage went from the bowers 
And the abbeys and the towers of our own 
green isle. 

And when despoiling foes sought our own 

green isle. 
Our fathers brave arose in our own green isle ; 
On valley, hill and plain. 
Fought and bled and fought again, 
For they'd brook no foreign chain in our own 
green isle. 

And when unholy might, in our own green isle. 
Trampled justice, truth and right in our own 
green isle. 
Still quick to do and dare 
Were the gallant sons she bare. 
For they never knew despair in our own green 
isle. 

Then let us all be true to our own green isle, 
Bear our parts as men should do for our own 
green isle. 

And ours the bliss shall be 

In the coming years to see 
Peace, joy and liberty in our own green isle. 

TIMOTHY D. SULLIVAN. 



THE PEOPLE'S CHIEF. 
Come forth, come forth, O Man of Men ! to 

the cry of the gathering nations. 
We watch on the tow'r, we watch on the hill, 

pouring our invocations — 
Our souls are sick of sounds and shades, that 

mark our shame and grief. 
We hurl the Dagons from their seats, and call 

the lawful Chief! 

Come forth, come forth, O Man of Men ! to 

the frenzy of our imploring. 
The winged despair that no man can bear, up 

to the Heavens soaring — 
Come ! Faith and Hope, and love and trust, 

upon their centre rock. 
The wailing Millions summon thee amid the 

earthquake shock ! 

We've kept the weary watch of years, with a 

wild and heart-wrung yearning. 
But the star of the Advent we sought in vain, 

calmly and purely burning ; 
False meteors flash'd across the sky, and 

falsely led us on ; 
The parting of the strife is come — the spell is 

o'er and gone ! 

The storms of enfranchised passions rise as 

the voice of the eagle's screaming, 
And we scatter now to the earth's four winds 

the memor)' of our dreaming ; 
The clouds but veil the lightning's bolt — 

Sibylline murmurs ring 
In hollow tones from out the depths — the 

People seek their King ! 

Come forth, come forth. Anointed One ! nor 
blazon nor honors bearing — 

No "ancient line" be thy seal or sign, the 
crown of Humanity wearing — 

Spring out as lucent fountains spring exult- 
ing from the ground — 

Arise, as Adam rose from God, with strength 
and knowledge crown'd ! 

The leader of the world's wide host guiding 

our aspirations. 
Wear thou the seamless garb of Truth sitting 

among the nations ! 
Thy foot is on the empty forms arouud in 

shivers cast — 
We crush ye with the scorn of scorn, exuviae 

of the past ! 



442 



POEAfS OF PATRIOrrSM. 



The Future's closed gates are now on their 

ponderous hinges jarring, 
And there comes a sound as of winds and 

waves each with the other warring: 
And forward bends the iist'ning world, as to 

their eager ken 
From out that dark and mystic land appears 

the Man of Men I j 

KVA MAKY KKLLY. 



QUERIES. 
Oh. tell me are the skies as blue 

In Ireland as of yore.' 
Do valleys wear that verdant hue 

They once so proudly wore .' 
Do zephyrs o'er her meadows sigh .' 

Can pilgrims' eyes see still 
The fern leaves on the mountain high. 
And heather on the hill.' 

Do rivers run, thro' forests dun. 
Or by each castle hold. 
Now slow, now fleet, with cadence sweet, 
.^s in the days of old ? 

Tell me if yet round towers stand 

In silence, to proclaim 
The glory of an ancient land — 

The splendor of her fame .' 
Can men still see the rath so grec:i. 

The abbey, lorn and lone, 
The holy well, in glen serene. 
And quaint Druidic stone.' 
The castle-eaves, where ivy leave;? 
Sob — crooning in the blast. 
O'er bright hopes fled, brave chieftains dead. 
-And relics of the past.' 

Oh, tell me are the maids as fair 

As in the long ago; 
With laughing eyes, and raven hair. 

To set one's heart aglow .' 
-Say. have they still the modest grace. 

And blushes like the dawn.' 

The beauty of the classic face .' 

The meekness of the fawn ? 

And are they true, dear land, to you. 
As they who scorned the frown. 
And ruthless swords, of Saxon hordes. 
By Limerick's 'leaguered town .' 

Oh, tell me if the grand old names 

Have magic power still 
To kindle freedom's sacred flames. 

Like Baal-fires on the hill : 



The saintly Laurence, brave Red Hugh. 

O'Neill, of famed Tyrone. 
.\nd Sarsficld bold, and Emmet true — 
Fitzgerald and Wolfe Tone, 
And all who died, in manly pride. 
On scaffold or in fray, 
To save the isle from Saxon wile, 
O.- shatter -Saxon sway' 

Oh, tell me if the night be done, 
.\nd daylight's on the strand.' 
And if a summer's lustrous sun 

Shines on a risen land.' 
Have voices from each hill and glen 

Taught men to do and dare — 
The path to tread — the goal to win — 
The glorious crown to wear .' 

If so — may soon a cloudless noon 
Our aspirations hail. 
And men acclaim in Freedom's name. 
The triumph of the Gael I 

KUOEXK DAVIS. 



THE YOUNG ENTHUSIAST. 
Tho' young that heart, tho' free each thought, 

Tho' free and wild each feeling; 
And tho' with fire each dream be fraught 

Across those bright eyes stealing — 

That heart is true, those thoughts are bold ; 

And bold each feeling sweepeth; 
The.-e lies not there a bosom cold, 

A pulse that faintly sleepeth. 

His dreams are idle dreams, ye say. 

The dreams of fairy story ; — 
Those dreams will burn in might some day 

And flood his path with glory ! 

Thou old dull vassal I fling thy sneer 

Upon that young heart coldly. 
And laugh at deeds thy heart may fear. 

Yet he will venture boldly. 

Ay, fling thy sneer, while dull and slow 
Thy withered blood is creeping ; 

That heart will beat, that spirit glow. 
When thy tame pulse is sleeping. 

Ay, laugh when o'er his country's ills 

With manly eye he weep>eth : 
Laugh, when his brave heart throbs and 
thrills. 

And thy cold bosom sleepeth. 



THE MEN OF OUR ISLAXD. 



443 



Laugh, when he vows in Heaven's sight, 

Never to flinch or faker ; — 
To toil and fight for a nation's right. 

And guard old Freedom's altar. 

Ay, laugh, when on the fiery wing 

Of hero thought ascending. 
To fame's bold cliff, with eagle spring. 

That young bright mind is tending. 

He'll gain that cliff, he'll reach that throne, 
The throne where genius shineth, 

When 'round and thro' thy nameless stone. 
The green weed thickly twineth. 

THOMAS FR.WCIS .MEAGHER. 



THE MEN OF OUR ISLAND. 
The men of our Island ! what think ye of 
them .' 
Does the blood of their ancestry beat in 
their veins? 
Does Freedom their prowess deny or con- 
demn.' 
Or has Cowardice fastened one link of their 
chains } 

The men of our Island ! the fearless and brave. 
Whose banner the proudest flashed out mid 
the proud. 
Whose sword, ever drawn to unfetter the 
slave, 
Flashed out on the foe like the bolt from 
the cloud — 

Who dares to impugn them — their valor — 
their worth. 
Descending, unlessened. through proud 
generations : 
In the days of her freedom the light of the j 
earth — ] 

In the days of her bondage the Moral of 
Nations ! 

In the love-bow'rs where Nature and Beauty 

are one. 
In the Senate where Eloquence mastery 

wields. 
At the board where the hours in festivity 

In the wars that are loud with the clashing j 
of shields — ! 



In the homes where the virtues spring sa- 
credly forth. 
Like the waters that gush from the holy 
Zem-Zem ; 
In all — they are first mid the spirits of earth I 
Now ! the men of our Island I what think 
ye of them ? 

Though their own mountain breezes embrace 
them no more. 
And the vallies that cradled the dreams of 
their youth, 
The sweet spells of Memory only restore. 
They love them with deeper and holier truth. 

The " coelum non animam mutant" which 
tells 
The dominant feeling, triumphant o'er time. 
Now — now in their bosoms more glowingly 
dwells 
Than when Liberty walked on those moun- 
tains sublime. 

They know not, who've seen not their own 
native hills. 
In the distance of waters forever retire, 
The pulse in the heart of the Exile that fills 
Its innermost shrine with unquenchable 
fire. 
Through this land, in each section, their pa- 
triot pray'rs 
For their loved native Island in harmony 
rise ; 
And where is the pulse more electric than 

theirs 
When Hope flashes out from her darkness of 
skies ? 

From the deserts of Ind and the shores of 
Kathay. 
To the faither Atlantic, they worship her 
name ; 
While time, every minute, in passing away. 
But gathers fresh incense to hallow the 
flame. 

Then, hurrah, for the men of our Isle and her 
worth ! 
Soon — soon must the stricken of centuries 
be. 
With heralds of Freedom like them through 
the earth. 
Mid the nations around her, "great, glo- 
rious, and free !" 
I JUH.V AUGUSTUS SHEA, 



444 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



ADDRESS TO A PATRIOT.* 
Hail, youthful tribune of an ancient race ! 

Hail, living martyr of a sacred cause ! [face 
Unchained, unscathed, thou standest face to 
With Britain's power and Draconian laws! 
A world thy forum, and thy nation now 
Stands in the fulgence of the immortal 
wreath 
Which aye shall bourgeon brightly on thy brow, 
To hear thy mandate with abated breath : 
Whether her hopws shall bloom again, or 
wither in inglorious death. 

Blast not her hope of freedom ! nor eclipse 

The beacon light of many a stormy sea ! 
Nor silence, by the fiat of thy lips, 

Hearts sorely tried, yet panting to be free ; 
But with a patriot hero's hopeful hand. 

Prophetic ken, and tongue of living fire. 
Call back a soul into that withering land; 

Bid, once again, her drooping sons aspire. 

Freedom, though stricken low, at each 
rebound still mounts the higher. 

Her cause, immortal as the verdant hills 
That first unto thy soul its vision spoke ; 
I Nor purer are the sunlit crystal rills [woke. 
Which in thy heart the songs of freedom 
The mountains speak in thunder tones to 
heaven, 
And fling their tides in fertilizing flow ; 
So thou, to whom the mountain voice is given, 
Should'st tell unto the world her living woe. 
And pour revivifying streams down on the 
parched hearts below. 

Nations have changed ; and causes, too, have 
changed 
Since last you stood before a list'ning world; 
And from the path of Right are some 
estranged. 
Whilst on theflagthey nowdisplay unfurled 
Are strange devices. M ill ions, too, have flown 
To worship freedom in thisgen'rous clime ; 
Some seek the shelter of their tyrant's throne. 
Or follow any God, in any land, save Free- 
dom's in their own. 

Still, Hope is Freedom's voice, the sword her 
pen [write 

The stainless tables where she deigns to 
Her lessons are the hearts of fearless men. 

Whenever and wherever they unite, 

las Francis Meagher in 



They form in heaven's sight a sacred band. 
Such as is sung, the pride of ancient Greece, 

Her robes the trophies of a rescued land. 
Her mural crown the happy homes won by 
a glorious peace. 

Be these thy aim : be Wisdom's cautious voice 
j Forever on thy tongue and in thine ears ; 
1 Nor bid in vain thy countr)''s heart rejoice 
I While earth is moistened by her exiles' tears ; 
Be native hearts and native truth thy hope I 

Oh. guard with jealous care thy sacred trust. 
And pitying heaven a certain path will ope, 
.\ path as glorious as her cause is just. 
To lead a land redeemed to mourn above 
her hero's sacred dust. 

JOHN BOYLE. 



" STAMPING OUT." 
Ay. stamp away ! Can you stamp it out — 

This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom.' 
Your feet are broad and your legs are stout. 

But stouter for this you'll need 'em ! 
You have stamped away for six hundred years. 

But again and again the Old Cause rallies. 
Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers. 

And with scythes come the men from our 
valleys ; 
The steel-clad Norman as he roams. 

Is faced by our naked gallowglasses. 
We lost the plains and our pleasant homes. 

But we held the hills and passes! 
.And still the beltane fires at night. 

If not a man were left to feed 'era — 
By widows' hands piled high and bright. 

Flashed far the flame of Freedom ! 

Ay. .stamp away! Can you stamp it out. 

Or how have your brutal arts been baffled.' 
You have wielded the power of rope and knot, 

Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold. 
But still, as from each martyr's hand 

The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, 
A thousand sprang to seize the brand. 

Our beltane fires relighting! 
And once again through Irish nights. 

O'er every dark hill redly streaming, 
And numerous as the heavenly lights 

Our rebel fires were gleaming! 
And though again might fail that flame, 

Quenched in the blood of its devoted. 
Fresh chieftains 'rose, fresh clansmen came. 

And again the Old Flag floated ! 



TO AMERICA. 



445 



That fire will burn, that flag will float, 

By virtue nursed, by Valor tended — 
Till with one fierce clutch upon your throat 

Your Moloch reign is ended ! 
It may be now, or it may be then. 

That the hour will come we have hoped for 
ages— 
But, failing and failing, we try again, 

And again the conflict rages. 
Our hate though hot is a patient hate. 

Deadly and patient to catch you tripping — 
Your years are many, your crimes are great, 

And the sceptre is from you slipping. 
But stamp away with your brutal hoof. 

While the fires to scorch you are upward 
cleaving. 
For, with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof 

Of your shroud the Fates are weaving ! 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? 

Who blushes at the name } 
When cowards mock the patriot's fate. 

Who hangs his head for shame ? 
He's all a knave, or half a slave. 

Who slights his country thus ; 
But a true man, like you, man, 

Will fill your glass with us. 

We drink the memory of the brave. 

The faithful and the few — 
Some lie far oflf beyond the wave — 

Some sleep in Ireland, too ; 
All — all are gone — but still lives on 

The fame of those who died — 
All true men, like you, men, 

Remember them with pride. 

Some on the shores of distant lands 

Their weary hearts have laid, 
And by the stranger's heedless hands 

Their lonely graves were made ; 
But, though their clay be far away 

Beyond the Atlantic foam — 
In true men, like you, men. 

Their spirit's still at home. 

The dust of some is Irish earth. 

Among their own they rest : 
And the same land that gave them birth 

Has caught them to her breast ; 



And we will pray that from their clay 

Full many a race may start. 
Of true men, like you, men. 

To act as brave a part. 

They rose in dark and evil days 

To right their native land ; 
They kindled here a living blaze 

That nothing shall withstand. 
Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right — 

They fell and pass'd away ; 
But true men, like you, men. 

Are plenty here to-day. 

Then here's their memory — may it be 

For us a guiding light, 
To cheer our strife for liberty. 

And teach us to unite. 
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still. 

Though sad as theirs your fate ; 
And true men be you, men. 

Like those of Ninety-Eight. 

JOHN KELLS INGRA.M. 



TO AMERICA. 
America ! adopted land 

Of thousands from my native isle, 
'Tis thine by Freedom's sons to stand, 

And bid the ocean-pilgrims smile; 
They who have sought her day by day. 
Far from their native homes away. 
Far from the graves of worthy sires. 
Far from their sacred altar-fires. 
And far from those endearing ties 
In which half life's elysium lies. 
For they have bled and still would bleed, 

Ere of thy banner proud unfurled 
One stripe should fade, one star recede. 

Before a thunder-mailed world. 
And they can dare the field, how well, 
How willingly, thy wars can tell. 
Let but the veriest mountaineer 

That roams upon Hibernia's hills 
The sacred name of Freedom hear. 

Oh ! how his heart with rapture thrills ! 

America ! need I portray 

The fervent, unconditioned love 
With which they battled in that day 
When England's banner first above 
Thy homes in fury was flung out.' 
Or tell with what a joyous shout 
They rushed into thy battle then, 
A living hurricane of men ? 



] 



446 



POEMS OF FAKIOTIS.\f. 



Shall I. though humble, call upon 
Thy Heaven-commissioned Washington, 
Whose fortunes in their darkest night 
They followed in the doubtful fight ? 
No — step of ii\ine shall not invade 
The home of his departed shade ; 
But of the living I shall seek, 

Who, counseled by awarding Fame, 
In monumental marble speak 

The glory of Montgomer>''s name; 
And see, again, where close beside 
Standeth that obelisk of pride 
To Ireland's Cicero, who gave 

His exiled genius to the state. 
And sank into his honored grave. 

Pre-eminent among the great; 
While Justice 'mid her sacred walls. 
Upon the shade of Emmet calls. 
From whose inspire.^ lips the sjx'll 
Of eloquence convincing fell : — 
Yes I there are living round us still 
Of whom these works declare the will. 
Who twined the wreaths of grateful fame 
For Emmet's and Montgomer)''s name. 

And shall the island of their birth, 

'Gainst slavery leagued, a slave remain 
Or, 'mid the nations of the earth. 

Uprising from the oppressor's chain, 
Resume her place ? It is with thee 
To say how long these things shall be. 
Yes, yes, to thee and to thy race, 

America, I urge my plea ; 
Thy land is Freedom's dwelling-place. 

And such may it forever be : 

She tells her tale of woes to thee. — 
To whom can she look up for aid 

If not to the victorious free, 
Whom Freedom her vicegerents made .' 
All thou canst do is but thy part 

Of Freedom's delegated trust. 
To cheer the nations who would start 

To life, and lift them from the dust, 
Be friendly to her friends, and fond. 
For so 'tis written in the bond. 
We ask not men, we ask not arms. 
Nor fleets to thunder war's alarms. — 
Nothing to weaken ev'n one tie 

Which Commerce weaxes across the sea; 
We ask thee but to breathe the sigh. 

The generous word of sympathy, — 
To give the heart without the hand, 
.\iid vindicate my native land. 



WASHINGTON. 
The name a Patriot builds upon his age, 
Based on enduring deeds, with honor crowned. 
Towering o'er Parties blind and bigot rage. 
.And frowning on the deathful wars they wage. 
And teaching earth, to its remotest bound. 
Greatness sublime — philosophy profound — 
Who would not, spurning every lesser aim, 
.\spirc to immortality like this — 
To link his memory with his country's fame. 
High as her hope^tcrnal as her name, 
.\ beacon o'er the perilous abyss 
Where perish glories Earth may not reclaim .' 
Such is the name that meets the circling su:i. 
The universal Perfect — Washington. 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 



J'roiii " i7,i/i/,ir/." 



JOHN AUGUSrU.S SHKA. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 
Furl that Banner, for 'tis wear)'. 
Round its staff 'lis drooping drear)-; 

Furl it. fold it. it is best ; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
.And there's not a sword to save it. 
And there's not one left to lave il 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it. hide it, let it rest! 

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 
Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh ! 'tis hard for us to fold it ; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner! furl it sadly ! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
.And ten thousands, wildly, madly. 

Swore it should forever wave : 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever. 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
Aud the hearts that proudly clasped it. 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 



BUXKEK HILL CENTEX XL4L ODE. 



447 



For, though conquered, they adore it! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it! 
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it. 

Now who furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gon,'. 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and storj'. 

Though its folds are in the dust : 
For its fame on brightest pages. 
Penned by poets and by sages. 
Shall go sounding down the ages. 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that Banner ! softly, slowly I 
Ti-eat it gently, — it is holy. 

For it droops above the dead ! 
Touch it not — unfold it never. 
Let it droop there, furled forever. 

For its people's hopes are dead! 

ABKAM J. RYAN. 



HAIL, BRIGHTEST BANNER. 
Hail, brightest banner that floats on the gale ! 
Flag of the country of Washington, hail ! 
Red are thy stripes as the blood of the brave. 
Bright are thy stars as the sun on the wave. 
Wrapt in thy folds are the hopes of the free, 
Banner of Washington, blessings on thee ! 

Mountain tops mingle the sky with their snow; 
Prairies lie smiling in sunshine below ; 
Rivers as broad as the sea in their pride 
Border thine empires, but do not divide ; 
Niagara's voice far out-anthems the sea; 
Land of sublimity ! blessings on thee ! 

Hope of the world ! on thy mission sublime, 
When thou didst burst on the pathway of 

Time, 
Millions from darkness and bondage awoke ; 
Music was born when liberty spoke ; 
Millions to come yet shall join in the glee : 
Land of the pilgrim's hope ? blessings on thee ! 

Empires shall perish and monarchies fail ; 
Kingdoms and thrones in thy glory grow pale ! 
Thou shalt live on, and thy people shall own 
Loyalty's sweet, where each heart is thy 

throne. 
Union and freedom thine heritage be ; 
Countrj'of Washington ! blessings on thee !" 

WILLIAM K. KUKINSUN. 



BUNKER HILL CENTENNIAL ODE. 

Heroes of Greek renown ! 
Ye who with floods of Persian gore. 
Purpled Cychreia's sounding shore I 
Strong wielders of the Dorian spear ! 
And ye, dear children of the dear, 

The holy violet crown. 
Ye live to-day. Distance and time 
Vanish before our longing eyes. 
And fresh in their eternal lives 

The Demigods arise. 

Fierce breed of iron Rome ! 
Ye whose relentless eagle's wings 
Are shadowing subjugated kings. 
With death and black destruction fraught 
To every hateful tyrant brought 

His own cursed legion home. 
Smile sternly now ; a free-born race 
Here draw your proudest maxims in. 
And eagerly in ampler space 

A mightier Rome begin. 

Savage, yet dauntless crew ! 
Who broke with grim, unflinching zeal. 
The mighty Spaniard's heart of steel ; 
When ye, with patriotic hands 
Bursting the dikes that keep your lands. 

Let death and freedom through, — 
Arise in glory ! Angrj' floods 
And haughty bigots all are tame. 
But ye, like liberating Gods, 

Have everlasting fame. 

And ye, rock-nurtured men ! 
Suliote or Swiss, — whose crags defied 
Burgundian power and Turkish pride ' 
Whose deeds, so dear to freemen, still 
Make every alp a holy hill, 

A shrine each Suliote glen ! 
Rejoice to-day ! No little bands 
Face here th' exulting despot's horde ; 
But Freedom sways with mighty hands 

Her ocean-sweeping sword. 

Chiefs of our own blest land. 
To whom turned long oppressed mankind 
A sacred refuge here to find ! 
Of every race the pride and boast. 
From wild Atlantic's stormy coast 

To far Pacific's strand. 
Millions on millions here maintain 
Your generous aims with steady will. 
And make our vast imperial reign 

The world's asylum still! 

GEORGE SENXOTT- 



44S 



POEMS OF PATKIOTISM. 



SONG OF THE IRISH AMERICAN SOLDIER. 
A southern sky above my head, 

A southern wave before me; 
The dew)' ground my welcome bed. 

And the night-cloud gathering o'er me. 
Our tented host around me spread. 

Vet the scalding tear-drops blind me, 
As memory dwells on days long fled 

And the friends I left behind me. 

I love this noble western land. 

Her hills, her vales, her mountains, 
Her cloudless skies, her rivers grand. 

Deep woods and sparkling fountains ; 
I love her great historic fame, 

'Twas that which first inclined me 
To draw the sword for her proud name. 

And the land I left behind me. 

For. fighting in Columbia's cause. 

1 fight for home and sire-land. 
For the welcome kind, the equal laws 

She gave our kin from Ireland. 
Her flag is ours, her glor)', too. 

For does not all remind us 
That she has been both leal and true 

To the land we left behind us.' 

When driven from our island-home j 

Ry famine and oppression, i 

We found, beyond the ocean's foam. 

Wealth -honors, for pxDssession , 
Wc found no harsh, restrictive laws 

In misery to bind us, 
And we'll cherish aye Columbia's cause 

For the land we left behind us. 

For, north and south, and east and west 

We see but one dominion. 
Where peace uprears her halcyon crest 

Above the eagle's pinion. 
As it has been in the glorious past. 

So may the future find it, 



And if love keep not our Union fast. 
Then a clasp of steel shall bind it ! 

MARY A. SADLIF.R. 



A FAREWELL TO AMERICA. 
Farewell ! my more tlian Fatherland ! 

Home of my heart and friends, adieu I 
Lingering beside some foreign strand. 

How oft shall I remember you I 

How often o'er the waters blue 
Send back a sigh to those I leave, 

The loving and beloved few 
Who grieve for me -for whom I grieve I 



We part I —no matter how we part ; 

There are some thoughts we utter not, 
I Deep treasured in our inmost heart. 

Never revealed, and ne'er forgot! 

Why murmur at the common lot.^ 
We parti— I speak not of the pain.— 

But when shall I each lovely spot 
.\nd each loved face behold again.' 

It must be months, it may be j'ears — 
It may— but no :— I will not fill 

Fond hearts with gloom, fond eyes with tears, 
I ■■ Curious to shape uncertain ill." 
! Though humble, few, and far, — yet, still 

Those hearts and eyes are ever dear ; 
1 Theirs is the love no time can chill, 
; The truth no chance or change can sear! 

All I have seen, and all I see. 
Only endears them more and more ; 

Friends cool, hopes fade, and moments flee. 
Affection lives when all is o'er' 
! Farewell, my more than native shore ! 

I do not seek or hope to find. 
Roam where I will, what I deplore 

To leave with them anr". thee liehind ! 

RILHARU HENRY WII.UK. 



PART VIII. 

POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Then rose the clang, the shout, the cry 

Of war from inward fosse and outward pale, 
And fast again the arrowy showers did fly — 

From twanging bows thick as the rattling hail 
From thundering cloud and lightning-litten sky, 

And shields were split, and riven breast and mail 
(;ave forth the souls of heroes, till the night 

Lowered o'er the woods, and still the clamorous fight 

Raged round the castle with redoubled roar, 

Through all the long and lonesome hours of dark. 

As roll Moyle's wallowing billows on the shore 

Mixed with the mariners' cries ; and still their mark 

The axe and red glaive made of steaming gore 
On many a hern's front, until the lark 

Sang his thin song from heavenly meadows sweet. 

Bright with the radiance of dawn's rosy feet. 

ROBERl' DWYEK Jl-)YCE. 



POEMS OF HEROISM, 



A BALLAD OF ATHLONE. 
Does any man dream that a Gael can fear? 

Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one ! 
The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear, 

Between the Leaguers and worn Athlone. 

" Breakdown the bridge!"— Six warriors rushed 
Through storm of shot and storm of shell ; 

With late, but certain victory flushed, 
The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well. 

They wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of 
fire: 

They fell in death, their work half done; 
The bridge stood fast, and nigh and nigher , 

The foe swarmed darkly, densely on. 

" O who for Erin will strike a stroke ? [roar ?" 
Who hurl yon planks where the waters 

Six warriors forth from their comrades broke. 
And flung them upon the bridge once more. 

Again at the rocking planks they dashed ; 

And four dropped dead, and two remained : 
The huge beams groaned, and the arch down- 
crashed ; 

Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained. 

St. Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried, 
" I have seen no deed like that in France!" 

With a toss of his head Sarsfield replied, 
" They had luck, the dogs ! 'Twas a merry 
chance!" 

O many a year upon Shannon's side 

They sang upon moor and sang upon heath 

Of the twain that breasted that raging tide. 
And the ten that shook bloody hands with 
death ! aubrey t. de vere. 



THE PLACE TO DIE. 
How little recks it where men die 

When once the moment's past 
In which the dim and glazing eye 

Has looked on earth its last ; 
Whether beneath the sculptured urn 

The coffined form shall rest. 
Or. in its nakedness, return 

Back to its mother's breast. 

Death is a common friend or foe. 

As different men may hold. 
And at its summons each must go. 

The timid and the bold ; 
But when the spirit, free and warm. 

Deserts it, as it must. 
What matter where the lifeless form 

Dissolves again to dust .' 

The soldier falls 'mid corses piled 

Upon the battle-plain. 
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild 

Above the gory slain : 
But though his corse be grim to see. 

Hoof-trampled on the sod, — 
What recks it when the spirit free 

Has soared aloft to God .' 

The coward's dying eye may close 

Upon his downy bed. 
And softest hands his limbs compose. 

Or garments o'er him spread ; 
But ye who shun the bloody fray 

Where fall the mangled brave ! 
Go strip his coffin-lid away. 

And see him in his grave ! 



452 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes 

With those we cherish near. 
And, wafted upward by their siglis, 

Soar to some cahiier sphere ; 
Hut whether on the scaffold high, 

Or in the battle's van. 
The fittest place where man can die 

Is where he dies for man. 

MICHAEL J. IIAKRV. 



Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy, 

Broad are the lands of Mac Caura, 
' Desmond feeds five hundred men a day. 
Vet, here's to O'Brien of Arra I 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
I Down from the top of Camailte, 

I Clansmen and kinsmen are coming here. 
To give him a cead milU failte. 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



O'BRIEN OF ARRA. 
Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy. 

Broad are the lands of Mac Caura, 
Desmond feeds five hundred men a day 
Yet here's to O'Brien of Arra ! 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer. 
Down from the lop of Camailte, 
Clansmen and kinsmen are coming here. 
To give him the cead mille faille. 

See you the mountain looks huge at eve — 

So is our chieftain in battle ; 
Welcome he has for the fugitive. 
Usquebaugh, fighting, and cattle. 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Gossip and ally are coming here. 
To give him the cead mille faille. 

Horses the valleys are tramping on. 

Sleek from the Sassenach manger ; 
Creaghts the hills are encamping on. 
Empty the lawns of the stranger ; 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Kern and bonaght are coming here. 
To give him the cead mille failte. 

He has black silver from Killaloe — 
Ryan and Carroll are neighbors — 
Neagh submits with a.fiiililiu, 
Butler is meant for our sabres. 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
Ryan and Carroll are coming here. 
To give him the cead mille failte. 

'Tis scarce a week since through Ossory 

Chased he the Baron of Durrow, 
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he 

Had died by the sword of Red Murrough, 
Up from the Castle of Drumineer, 
Down from the lop of Camailte, 
All the O'Briens are coming here. 
To give him the cead mille failte. 



CROSSING THE BLACKWATER. 
We stood so steady. 

All under fire; 
We stood so steady. 
Our long spears ready 

To vent our ire, — 
To dash on the Saxon, 
Our mortal foe. 
And lay him low 

In the bloody mire, 

'Twas by Blackwater 
When snows were white, 

'Twas by Blackwater, 

Our foes for the slaughter 
Stood full in sight ; 

But we were ready 

With our long spears. 

And we had no fears 
But we'd win the fight. 

Their bullets came whistling 

Upon our rank. 
Their bullets came wnistling. 
Their spears were bristling 

On the other bank ; 
Yet we stood steady, 
And each good blade. 
Ere morn did fade. 

At their life-blood drank. 

" Hurrah for Freedom!" 

Came from our van : 
'• Hurrah for Freedom I 
Our swords — we'll feed 'em 

As best we can, — 
With vengeance we'll feed 'em! 
Then down we crashed, 
Through the wild ford dashed, 

.And the fray began! 

Horses to horses, 
And man to man, — 



NO, MY LORD.' 



453 



O'er dying horses, 
And blood and corses, 

O'Sullivan. 
Our general, thundered. 
And we were not slack 
To slay at his back 

Till the fight began. 

O how we scattered 

The foemen then, — 
Slaughtered and scattered, 
And chased and shattered, 

By shore and glen ! — 
To the wall of Mayallo 
Few fled that day, — 
Will they bar our way 

When we come again ? 

Our dead freres we buried, — 

They were but few, — 
Our dead freres we buried 
Where the dark waves hurried, 

And flashed and flew : 
O sweet be their slumber 
Who thus have died 
In the battle's tide, 

Inisfail, for you ! 

ROBERT DWVER JOYCE. 



NO, MY LORD ! " 
O Leixlip bridge in the morning 

Is a pleasant place to be ; 
The salmon-leap in the dawning 

Is a pleasant sight to see, [growth. 

When the fresh grass waves in its greenest 
And the sun comes up o'er the Hill of Howth 
In summer majesty. 

But naught recks he of the beauty 

Of scene so passing fair: 
Other and sterner the duty 

Of him who paces there ; — 
Nicholas Dempsey, the yeoman. 

Sentinels Leixlip road, 
And his gray eye seeks a foeman. 

For rebels are abroad. 

But save the morning song of the bird. 
Or the far-off low from the browsing herd. 
Or the word of command from the old king 

crow, 
Passed from the van to the rearward row. 
As the black troop winged o'er the watchers 

below ; — 



Save bark of the waking dog answering bark, 

Or the dying song of the soaring lark. 

Or the fitful rustle of green-eared corn. 

No sound broke the calm of the summer morn. 

Wearily Nicholas Dempsey changed 
From shoulder to shoulder his gun. 

And wearily his gray eye ranged 

From sun to earth, from earth to sun. 

But what is the sound that now falls on his ear, 

And swells with each moment more near and 
more clear.' 

'Tis but a flock of bleating sheep, 
'Tis but a drover behind ; 

Round the bend in the road they sweep, 

.■\nd the dust in the drover's coat lies deep 
As he breasts the rising wind. 

Nicholas Dempsey turned on his heel. 

With a long-drawn weary sigh. 
And turned again in a lazy wheel 

As the drover passed him by. 
'■ God save you, friend !" the drover said, 

" Can I pasture my weary sheep.'" [fled.' 
But why has the hue from the yeoman's cheek 
As though he were placed face to face with 

the dead .' 
And why does the blood now rush back so red. 

And his hand to his sword-hilt leap .' 

Calmly stands the drover, 

Waiting his reply ; 
No fear you may discover 
In that undaunted eye. 
The yeoman stands in a waking dream. 
And far away doth his spirit seem ; 
Slowly his thoughts come back again. 
As half in fear and half in pain 
Strange feelings stirred his rugged heart. 

And he sheathed again his sword, 

And he felt a tear to his eyelids start 

As he answered, "No, my lord !" 

Lord Edward Fitzgerald passed on his way 

Behind his flocks of sheep, 
And Nicholas Dempsey all that day 

His weary watch did keep. 
For Ireland's cause Lord Edward bled. 
Not as he hoped when his flock he led 

That morn o'er the emerald sward. 
Yet oft ere from his prison bed 

To heaven his spirit soared. 
He thought of that brave yeoman 
Who answered his young foeman, 
'■ No, my lord !" 

.\NONYMOUS. 



454 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



THE FAITHFUL NORMAN. 

Praise to the valiant and faithful foe ! 
Give us noble foes, not the friend who lies ! 
We dread the drugged cup. not the open blow ; 
We dread the old hate in the new disguise. 
To Ossory's King they had pledged their 

word; 
He stood in their camp, and their pledge they 

broke ; 
Then Maurice, the Norman, upraised his 

sword ; 
The cross on the hilt he kissed and spoke : 

" So long as this sword or this arm hath might, 
I swear by the cross which is lord of all, 
By the faith and honor of noble and knight. 
Who touches yon Prince, by this hand shall 

fall!" 
Side by side through the throng they passed ; 
And Eire gave praise to the just and true. 
Brave foe ! Wrongs past truth heals at last ; 
There is room in the great heart of Eire for 
you 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



ARTHUR M^COY. 
While the snow-fiakes of winter are falling 

On mountain, and housetop, and tree. 
Come olden weird voices recalling 

The homes of Hy-Faly to me ; 
The ramble by river and wild wood. 

The legends of mountain and glen. 
When the magical mirror of childhood 

Made heroes and giants of men. 

Then I had my dreamings ideal. 

My prophets and heroes sublime. 
Yet I found one — true, living, and real — 

Surpass all the fictions of time : 
Whose voice thrilled my heart to its centre. 

Whose form tranced my soul and my eye ; 
A temple no treason could enter; — 

My hero was .Arthur M 'Coy. 

For Arthur M'Coy was no bragger. 

No bibber, nor blustering clown, 
'Fore the club of an alehouse to swagger. 

Or drag his coat-tail through the town ; 
But a veteran, stern and steady. 

Who felt for his land and her ills ; 
In the hour of her need ever ready 

To shoulder a pike for the hills. 



As the strong mountain tower spreads its 

Dark, shadowy, silent, and tall, [arms. 

In our tithe-raids and midnight alarms, 

H is bosom gave refuge to all — 
If a mind, clear, and calm, and expanded 

A soul ever soaring and high, 
'Mid a host — gave a right to command it 

A hero was Arthur M'Coy. 

While he knelt, with a Christian demeanor. 

To his priest, or his Maker alone. 
He scorned the vile slave, or retainer, 

That crouched 'round the castle, or throne; 
The Tudor— The Guelph, The Pretender, 

Were tyrants, alike, branch and stem ; 
But who'd free our fair land, and defend her. 

A nation, were monarchs to him. 



And this faith in good works he attested. 

When Tone linked the true hearts, and 
'Every billow of danger he breasted — [brave, 

His sword-flash, the crest of its wave ; 
A standard he captured in Gorey. 

A sword-cut and ball through the thigh 
Were among the mementoes of glor^' 

Recorded of Arthur M'Cov. 

Long the quest of the law and its beagles. 

His covert the cave and the tree ; 
Tho' his home was the home of the eagles. 

His soul was the soul of the free. 
No toil, no defeat could enslave it. 

Nor franchise, nor " Amnesty Kill " — 
No lord, but the Maker who gave it. 

Could curb the high pride of his will. 

With the gloom of defeat ever laden— 

Seldom seen at the hurling or dance. 
Where thro' blushes, the eye of the maiden 

Looks out for her lover's advance ; 
And whenever he stood to behold it. 

A curl of the lip or a sigh. 
Was the silent reproach that unfolded 

The feelings of Arthur M'Coy. 

For it told him of freedom o'ershaded — 

That the iron had entered their veins — 
When beauty bears manhood degraded, 

And manhood's contented in chains. 
Yet he loved that fair race as a martyr. 

And if his own death could recall 
The blessings of liberty's charter. 

His bosom had bled for them all. 



THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 



455 



And he died for his love — I remember, 

On a mound by the Shannon's blue wave, 
One dark snowy eve in December, 

I knelt at the patriot's grave. 
The aged were all heavy-hearted — 

No cheek in the churchyard was dry ; 
The sun of our hills had departed — 

God rest you, old Arthur M'Coy ! 

JOHN BOYLE. 



THE RIDE TO ARBOE. 
He came down the glen in the morning. 

As tlie sunbeams shone fair on the tide. 
With his green rebel banner above him.. 

And a hundred brave men by his side. 
He stopped not for greeting or parley. 

But over the hills rode away, 
Nor halted his band till at noontide 

Before him Lough Neagh's waters lay. 

Ho ! Rory, give rein to your charger, 

Spur hard over mountain and ford. 
And pause not for river or ravine. 

And let each true man grasp his sword ; 
For Lucas, the Saxon marauder, 

Your darkest and deadliest foe, 
Has gone with a squadron of spearmen 

To ravage and foray Arboe 

Away o'er the hills of Badawney, 

Thro' the green woods of fair Moneymore, 
Where the summit of tall Dunnavara 

Frowns down upon Tulla's green shore. 
One sweep round the hills of Ardara, 

Where the waters of Annalee flow. 
And with sabre and banner uplifted, 

They dash into burning Arboe. 

Lefore them the dark smoke uprises. 

For Lucas has plundered the town. 
And afar in the distance is streaming 

The red crimsoned flag of the Crown ; 
And the spears of Clan-London are flashing. 

They glisten and gleam in the sun. 
And a smile lights the face of their leader. 

Well pleased at the deed he has done. 

" Steady ! wheel right into column. 

Look well to the grasp of each hand ; 
Charge 1 down on the Sa.xon marauders, 

And strike for the flag of your land !" 
Hurrah ! with a roar like a torrent 

That rolls down from dark Knock-a-voe 
They sweep through the red burning village 

And burst on the ranks of the foe. 



There's clashing of cuirass and sabre. 

And splintered is many a spear. 
And the voice of the Rapparee Captain 

Is ringing out fearless and clear : 
" Smite down the fierce robbers of Cromwell, 

And death and revenge for Arboe ! 
Strike deep to their false-hearted bosoms, 

Till their black blood in rivulets flows. 

" They spared not the helpless and feeble, — 

Strike home for the wrongs of the dead ! 
Tliey slaughtered the babe and the mother, — ■ 

Revenge for the red blood they shed ! 
T/tey trampled the shrines of our fathers, — 

Upon them with sabre and skean ! 
Dash down on the Saxon marauders. 

And charge home for God and the Green !" 

Full oft have the woods of Tyrowen 

With cry of the gallowglass rang. 
When down on the red ranks of Cromwell 

With hatred and fury they sprang ; 
But never, in breach or in battle. 

In onset, in foray or raid, — 
Oh, ne'er saw the hills of Tyrowen 

Such charge as the Rapparees made. 

They pierced thro' the heart of the column. 

They trampled the foe in their blood. 
They swept thro' the ranks with their sabres, 

With the might of a merciless flood. 
Till, beaten, and shattered, and bleeding. 

To earth fall the ranks of the foe. 
And their leader, defeated and flying. 

Is chased through the streets of Arboe. 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 
From '■'Rory the Rapparee." 



THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. 

He grasped the ponderous hammer, he could 
not stand it more. 

To hear the bomb-shells bursting, and thun- 
dering battle's roar ; 

He said, " The breach they're mounting, the 
Dutchman's murdering crew — 

I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see 
what that can do ! 

" Now. swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that 

iron well ; 
'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so 

mind not shot or shell : " — 



456 



J'OE.US OF HEROISM. 



" Ah sure." cried both. " the horse can wan. 

for Sarsfield's on the wall, \ 

And where you go we'll follow, with you to 

stand or fall I " j 

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed 
into the street. 

His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless 
foe to meet ; — 

High on the breach of Limerick with daunt- 
less hearts they stood. 

Where bomb-shells burst, and shot fell thick, 
and redly ran the blood. 

" Now look you, brown - haired Moran, and 

mark you, swarthy Ned, 
This day we'll prove the thickness of many a 

Dutchman's head ! 
Hurrah I upon their bloody path they're 

mounting gallantly ; 
And now the first that tops the breach, leave 

him to this and me." 

The first that gained the rampart, he was a 
captain brave, — 

A captain of the grenadiers, with blood- 
stained dirk and glaive ; [vain I 

He pointed and he parried, but it was all in 

For fast through skull and helmet the ham- 
mer found his brain ! 

The next that topped the rampart, he was a 

colonel bold ; 
Bright, through the dust of battle, his helmet 

flashed with gold — 
"Gold is no match for iron," the doughty 

blacksmith said. 
And with that ponderous hammer he cracked 

his foeman's head. 

'• Hurrah for gallant Limerick ! " black Ned 

and Moran cried, 
As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their 

hammers well they plied ; 
A bomb-shell burst between them — one fell 

without a groan. 
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the 

breach was thrown. 

" Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield. 

"beware the treacherous mine ! 
Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or 

surely death is thine ! " 
The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped 

the blood-stained wall. 



As high into the shuddering air went foe- 
men, breach and all ! 

Up, like a red volcano, they thundered wild 
and high, — 

Spear, gun. and shattered standard, and foe- 
men through the sky; 

And dark and bloody was the shower that 
round the blacksmith fell ; — 

He thought up)on his 'prentice boys. — they 
were avenged well. 

On foemen and defenders a silence gathered 

down ; 
'Twas broken by a triumph shout that shook 

the ancient town. 
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged 

and slew, 
And taught King William and his men what 

Irish hearts could do. 

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto 

the river's side ; 
He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink it 

in the tide ; 
The timber it was tough and strong, it took 

no crack or strain ; 
" J/aTnwf.' 'twon't break !" the blacksmith 

roared, " I'll trj' their heads again I" 

He rushed upon the flying ranks ; his hammer 

ne'er was slack. 
For in thro' blood and bone it crashed, thro' 

helmet and thro' jack ; [pontoon. 

He's ta'en a Holland captain beside the red 
And "Wait you here," he boldly cries ; " I'll 

send you back full soon ! 

" Dost see this gorj' hammer? It cracked 

some skulls to-day. 
And yours 'twill crack if you don't stand and 

list to what I say : — 
Here ! take it to your cursed King, and tell 

him softly too, 
'Twould be acquainted with /ii's skull if he 

were here, not you!" 

The blacksmith sought his smithy and blew 

his bellows strong ; 
He shod the steed of Sarsfield. but o'er it 

sang no song ; 
" Ochone: my boys are dead !" he cried ; their 

loss I'll long deplore. 
But comfort's in my heart, their graves are red 

with foreign gore." 

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 



ROJ^y or THE HILLS. 



457 



O'DONNELL ABOO! 
Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding, 

Loudly the war cries arise on the gale, 
Fleetly the steed by Lough Suilig is bounding, 
To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's 
green vale. 
On, every mountaineer. 
Strangers to flight and fear ; 
Rush to the standa.'d of dauntless Red 
Hugh: 
Bonnought and Gallowglass 
Throng from each mountain pass ! 
On for old Erin — G'Donnell aboo! 

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing. 

With many a chieftain and warrior-clan ; 
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are 
prancing, 
'Neath borderers brave from the banks of 
the Bann ; 
Many a heart shall quail 
Under its coat of mail ; 
Deeply the merciless tyrant shall rue. 
When on his ear shall ring, 
Borne on the breeze's wing, 
Tyrconnell's dread war-cry — O'Donnell 
aboo! 

Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling. 

Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain. 
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling. 
All — all who would scare them are banished 
or slain ! 
Grasp, every stalwart hand. 
Hackbut and battle-brand — [due ; 
Pay them all back the deep debt so long 
Norris and Clifford well 
Can of Tir-Conaill tell- 
Onward to glory — O'Donnell aboo ! 

Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defend- 
ing— 
The altars we kneel at and homes of our 
sires ; 
Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending — 
Midnight is red with the plunderer's fires ! 
On with O'Donnell, then. 
Fight the old fight again. 
Sons of Tir-Conaill all valiant and true ! 
Make the false Saxon feel 
Erin's avenging steel ! 
Strike for your country ! O'Donnell aboo ! 

M. J. MCCANN. 



RORY OF THE HILLS. 
" That rake up near the rafters, 

Why leave it there so long,' 
The handle, of the best of ash, 

Is smooth, and straight, and strong ; 
And, mother, will you tell me. 

Why did my father frown. 
When to make the hay in summer time 

I climbed to take it down ? " 
She looked into her husband's eyes, 

While her own with light did fill ; 
" You'll shortly know the reason, boy! " 

Said Rory of the Hill. 

The midnight moon is lighting up 

The slopes of Sliev-na-mon — 
Whose foot affrights the startled hares 

So long before the dawn ? 
He stopped just where the Anner's stream 

Winds up the woods anear. 
Then whistled low, and looked around 

To see the coast was clear. 
.A. sheeling door flew open — 

In he stepped with right good will — 
" God save all here, and bless your work," 

Said Rory of the Hill. 

Right hearty was the welcome 

That greeted him, I ween, 
For years gone by he fully proved 

How well he loved the Green ; 
And there was one among them 

Who grasped him by the hand — 
One who, through all that weary time, 

Roamed on a foreign strand — 
He brought them news from gallant friends 

That m.ade their heart-strings thrill ; 
•• My sowl ! I never doubted them ! " 

Said Rory of the Hill. 

They sat around the humble board 

Till dawning of the day. 
And yet not song or shout I heard — 

No revellers were they : 
Some brows flushed red with gladness, 

While some were grimly pale ; 
But pale or red, from out those eyes 

Flashed souls that never quail ! 
" And sing us now about the vow, 

They swore for to fulfill—" 
'• Ye'll read it yet in history," 

Said Rory of the Hill, 

Next day the ashen handle. 

He took down from where it hung. 



458 



POEMS OF HEROISAf. 



The toothed rake, full scornfully, 

Into the fire he flung, 
.'\nd in its stead a shining tlade 

Is gleaming once again, 
(Oh ! for a hundred thousand of 

Such weapons and such men 
Right soldierly he wielded it. 

And (L;f)'ng through his drill— 
"Attention" — "charge"- "front point" — 
" advance !" 

Cried Rory of the Hill. 

She looked at him with woman's pride. 

With pride and woman's fears ; 
She flew to him, she clung to him. 

And dried away her tears ; 
He feels her pulse beat truly. 

While her arms around him twine — 
" Now God be praised for your stout heart. 

Brave little wife of mine." 
He swung his first-born in the air, 

While joy his heart did fiU- 
" You'll be a Freeman yet. my boy," 

Said Rory of the Hill. 

Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, 

And stronger than the wind ; 
And thrones shall fall and despots bow 

Before the might of mind ; 
The poet and the orator 

The heart of man can sway, 
And would to the kind Heavens 

That Wolfe Tone were here to-day! 
Yet trust mc. friends, dear Ireland's strength, 

Her truest strength, is still. 
The rough-and-ready roving boys. 

Like Rory of the Hill. 

CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 



THE RISING OF THE MOON. 
" Oh ! tlicn tell me. Shawn O'Ferrall, 

Tell me why you hu^rry so ?" 
" Hush, ma bouchal. hush and listen," 

And his cheeks were all a-glow. 
" 1 bear ordhers from the captain. 

Get you ready quick and soon. 
For the pikes must be together 

At the risin' of the moon." 

" Oh I then tell me. Shawn O'Ferrall. 

Where the gatherin' is to be ?" 
• 1 n the ould spot by the river. 
Right well known to you and me. 



One word more — for signal token 
Whistle up the marchin' tune. 

With your pike ufjon your shoulder. 
By the risin' of the moon. " 

Out from many a mudwall cabin 

Eyes were watching thro' that night. 
Many a manly chest was throbbing 

For the blessed warning light. 
Murmurs passed along the valleys 

Like the banshee's lonely croon. 
And a thousand blades were flashing 

At the risin' of the moon. 

There beside the singing river 

That dark mass of men was seen. 
Far above the shining weapons 

Hung their own beloved green. 
" Death to ev'ry foe and traitor ! 

Forward ! strike the marchin' tune. 
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 

'Tis the risin" of the moon. " 

Well they fought for poo." old Ireland, 

And full bitter was their fate 
(Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow 

Fill the name of Ninety-Eight). 
Yet. thank God. e'en still are beating 

Hearts in manhood's burning noon, 
Who would follow in their footsteps 

At the risin' of the moon ! 

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY. 



THE O'KAVANAGH.* 
The Saxons had met. and the banquet was 

spread. 
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led : 
And the banners that hung round the festal 

that night. 
Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in 

fight. 

In came the O'Kavanagh. fair as the morn. 
When earth to new beauty and vigor is born ; 
They shrank from his glance like the waves 
I from the prow. 

For Nature's nobility sat on his brow. 

.\ttended alone by his vassal and bard ; 

No trumpet to herald, no clansmen to guard. 



King of l.cinster at the bcKinnini; of the fifth century. 



DE COURCrS PILGRIMAGE. 



459 



He came not attended by steed or by steel : 
No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel. 

In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled — 
So proud, yet so knightly — so gallant, yet mild ; 
He moved like a God through the light of that 

hall, 
And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to 



" Come pledge us, Lord Chieftain ! come 
pledge us !" they cried ; 

Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied ; 

And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh 
bore — 

"The friendships to come, not the feuds that 
are o'er." 

But, minstrel ! why cometh a change o'er thy 

theme .' 
Why sing of red battle — what dream dost thou 

dream .' 
Ha ! " Treason " 's the cry. and " Revenge " is 

the call ! 
As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the 

hall. 

A kingdom for Angelo's mind ! to portray 
Green Erin's undaunted Avenger, that day ; 
The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting 

eye. 
Like some comet commissioned with wrath 

from the sky. 

Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his 

red way — 
Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array ; 
And, mounting his charger, he left them to 

tell 
The tale of that feast and its bloody farewell ! 

And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance. 
With a shout from each heart, and a soul in 

each lance. 
He rushed, like a storm, o'erthe night-covered 

heath, 
And swept through their ranks, like the angel 

of death. 

Then hurrah ! for thy glory, young Chieftain, 
hurrah ! 

O! had wesuchlightning-souled heroes to-day, 
I Again would our Sunburst expand in the gale, 
j And Freedom exult o, er green Innisfail. 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 



DE COURCY'S PILGRIMAGE. 
" I'm weary of your elegies, yourkeenings and 

complaints. 
We've heard no strain this blessed night but 

histories of saints ; 
Sing us some deed of daring — of the living or 

the dead !" 
So Earl Gerald, in Maynooth, to the Bard 

Neelan said. 

Answered the Bard Neelan — " O Earl, I will 

obey ; 
And I will show you that you have no cause 

for what you say ; 
A warrior may be valiant, and love holiness 

also. 
As did the Norman Courcy, in this country 

long ago." 

Few men could match De Courcy. on saddle 

or on sward. 
The ponderous mace he valued more than any 

Spanish sword ; 
On many a field of slaughter scores of men lay 

smashed and stark, 
And the victors as they saw them said — " Lo! 

John De Courcy 's mark !" 

De Lacy was his deadly foe, through envy of 
his fame ; 

He laid foul ambush for his life, and stigma- 
tized his name ; 

But the gallant John De Courcy kept still his 
mace at hand. 

And rode, unfearing feint or force, across his 
rival's land. 

He'd made a vow, for some past sins, a pil- 
grimage to pay. 

At Patrick's tomb, and there to bide a fort- 
night and a day ; 

And now amid the cloisters the disarmed 
giant walks. 

And with the brown beads in his hand, from 
cross to cross he stalks. 

News came to Hugo Lacy of the penance of 

the Knight, 
And he rose and sent his murderers from 

Durrogh forth by night ; 
Ascoreof mighty Methian men, proof guarded 

for the strife. 
And he has sworn them, man by man, to take 

De Courcy 's life. 



46o 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



'Twas twilight in Downpatrick town, the 

pilgrim in the porch 
Sat. faint with fasting and with prayer, before 

the darkened church ; 
When suddenly he heard a sound upon the 

stony street — 
A sound, familiar to his ears, of battle horses' 

feet. 

He stepped forth to a hillock where an oaken 
cross it stood. 

And looking forth, he leaned upon the monu- 
mental wood. 

"Tishe! 'tis he I" the foremost cried — "'tis 
well you came to shrive. 

For another sun, De Courcy, you shall never 
see alive ! " 

Then roused the softened heart within the 

pilgrim's sober weeds — 
He t'.iought upon his high renown, and all his 

knightly deeds. 
He felt the spirit swell within his undefended 

breast. 
And his courage rose the faster that his sins 

had been confest. 

"I am no dog to perish thus! no deer to 

couch at bay ! 
Assassins ! 'ware the life you seek, and stand 

not in my way ! " 
He plucked the tall cross from the root, and 

waving it around. 
He dashed the master murderer stark lifeless 

to the ground. 

As rowon row they pressed within the deadly 

ring he made. 
Twelve of the score in their own gore within 

his reach he laid ; 
The rest i i panic terror ran to horse and fled 

away, 
.•\iid left the knight, De Courcy, at the bloody 

cross to pray. 

•■ And now," quoth Neelan to the Earl, "I did 

your will obey ; 
Have I not shown you had no cause for what 

I heard you say?" 
" Faitli, Neelan," answered Gerald, " your holy 

man. Sir John, 
Z>/</bear his cross right manfully, so much we 

have to own." 

IHOMAS D'ARCY M^GEE. 



THE LEAP FOR LIFE. 

I An Episode in I he Career of Marshal Mac- 
mahon. 

In Algeria, with Bugeaud, 

Harassed by a crafty foe, [one ; 

Were the French, in eighteen hundred thirty- 
Swarthy Arabs prowled about 
I Camp and outpost and redoubt. 

Crouching here, and crawling there. 

Lurking, gliding everywhere. 
Tiger-hearted, under stars and under sun ; 

Seeking by some stealthy chance 
I Vengeance on the troops of France — 

Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate 

Savage rage and savage hate 

For the deeds of desolation harshly done. 

On a rugged plateau. 
Forty miles from headquarters of Marshal 

Bugeaud, 
Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe. 
Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew 
Round the hard-beset French. 

To dash out and flash through. 
Like a wind-driven flame, they would dare, 

though a host 
Hot from Hades stood there. But abandon 

the post ? 
Nay, they dare not do that ; they were sol- 
diers of France, 
And dishonor should stain neither sabre nor 

lance ; 
They could bravely meet death, though like 

Hydra it came, 
Horror-headed and dire, but no shadow of 

shame 
For a trust left to perish when danger drew 

nigh. 
Should e'er dim the flag waving free to the sky. 
But soon came a terror more dread to the soul 
Then war's wild thunder-crash when its battle 

clouds roll. 
And the heavens are shrouded from light, 

while a glare, [air ! 

.As of hell, breaks in hot. lurid streams on the 

It was Famine, grim-visaged and gaunt. 
To the camp most appalling of foes — 
Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure 
.\s the swift headsman's deadliest blows. 
O'er the ramparts it sullenly strode. 
Gliding darkly by tent and by wall. 
Spreading awe wheresoever it went. 
And the gloom of dismay over all; 



THE LEAP FOR LIFE. 



461 



Blighting valor that ne'er in war's red front 

had quailed, 
Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife 

e'er had paled. 

Then a council was held, and the commandant 

said 
Direst peril was near : they must summon 

swift aid 
From the Marshal, or all would be lost ere the 

sun 
Of to-morrow went down in the west, Was 

there one 
Who, to save the command and the honor of 

France, 
Would ride forth with despatches ? He ceased, 

and a glance 
At the bronzed faces near showed that spirits 

to dare 
Any desperate deed under heaven were there. 
But the first to arise and respond was a 

youth 
Whose brow bore nature's signet of courage 

and truth. 
In whose eye valor shone calm and clear as a 

star 
When the winds are at rest, and the clouds 

fade afar. 
Who was he that stood forth with such reso- 
lute air .' 
Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold, free, 

dcbonaire. 
Never knight looked more gallant with shield 

and with spear, 
Never war-nurtured chieftain less conscious 

of fear. 
In his mien was the heroic flash of the Gaul, 
With the .fire of the Celt giving grandeur to 

all; 
And he said, head erect, face with ardor aglow, 
"I will ride with despatches to Marshal 

Bugeaud !" 

It is night, and a stillness profound 
Folds the camp ; Arabs stealthily creep 
Here and there in the moonlight beyond. 
With ears eagerly bent for a sound 
From the garrison, watchful and weak: 
O'er the tents welcome night breezes 

sweep. 
Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek 
Of men scorched by a pitiless sun 
To a hue almost swarthy and deep 
As the hue of the foe they would shun. 



Stretching dimly afar. 
Between slopes that are lugged and bare, 
Half obscure under moonbeam and star, 
Half revealed in the soft, misty air, 
Runs a rude, broken way that will lead 
Gallant rider and sure-footed steed 
Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud, 
Forty miles over high land and low ; 
But the steed must be trusty and fleet. 
And the bridle-hand steady and keen 
That shall guide him by rock and ravine. 
Where each stride of the galloping feet 
Must span dangers that slumber unseen ; 
And beyond, scarce a league to the west. 
Yawns a treacherous chasm.dark and deep. 
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep. 
And the rider must ride at his best. 
And his steed take the terrible leap 
Like a winged creature cleaving the air. 
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there. 
With perchance a steed stark on its breast; 
And the moon shall look down with a stare 
Where they lie in perpetual rest. 

Now the silence is broken by neigh and by 

champ 
And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the 

camp 
Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light, and as 

free 
As a bridegroom who goes to his marriage 

may be. 
With prance and with gallop and gay caracole 
His swift steed bounds along, as if spurning 

control ; 
But the bridle-hand guides him unerring and 

true. 
And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answer- 
ing thew. 
Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly 

from sight. 
Till both rider and steed sink away in the 

night. 
But they go not unheard, and they speed not 

unseen ; 
Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fiercely 

and keen 
From dim ambush around ; then like spectres 

arise 
White-robed figures that follow : the rider 

descries 
Them on slope and in hollow, and knows they 

pursue. 
But he fears not their craft or the deeds they 

mav do. 



462 POEMS OF HEROISM. 

For his brave steed is eager and strong, and | Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent 

the pace to the wind. 

Growing faster and faster each stride of the And one thought of the foe and his comrades 



Now the slopes right and left seem alive with And alow, earnest prayer that all heaven must 

the foe heed. 

Gliding ghost-like along, but still stealthy and He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to 

low, his steed. 

As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; With a bound it responds, ears set back. 



they think 



nostrils wide. 



To entrap him when back from the terrible And the rush of a thunder-bred storm 



Of the chasm he returns, for his steed cannot Now the brink! now the leap! they are'over ! 



leap 



Hurrah! 



The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly away 



Its steep 
Ragged walls ope before him, with death lying \ 

deep 
In the darkness below: they will seize him, 

and take 
From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and ' 

stake, i 

Evcrj' secret it holds ; then his life blood | 

may flow. 
But he never shall ride to the camp of 

Bugeaud. , 

Still unflinching and free through the moon- 
light he goes, 
And each pulse with the hot flush of eagerness 

glows. j 

Now a glance at the path where his gallant ' 

steed flies. 
Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms that 

arise 
On the dim, rugged slopes, then still onward 

and on. 
Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping jaws 

yawn 
On his sight ; but the rider well knows it is 

there. 
And his speed is soon cautiously checked to 



Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as the 

flight 
Of an eagle in mid-air, they sweep through 

the night, 
While the baffled foe glare in bewildered 

amaze 
At the fast -flying prey speeding far from 

their gaze ; 
And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn's 

early glow 
When McMahon rides into the camp of 

Bugeaud. 

DAXIKL CONNOLLY. 



MACMAHON'S DEFIANCE. 

Sceiu : Council Chaiiilvi; Dublin Castle. Time : 

1641. 

By Heaven, that hateful name is false ! no 

•' traitor's " soul have I — 
Not mine to blush for " craven crimes " — not 

mine " the dread to die :" 
And, though a captive here I stand within 

these Dublin towers, 
I swear we fight for king and right — a holy 

cause is ours : 



prepare Even here I fling your tauntings back — I fling 

For the desperate leap; he must now put to them in your face 

P'^oof Dark picture. Parsons, of your heart — a tell- 

The true mettle beneath, for the slip of a hoof, tale of your race. 

Or a swerve on the brink, will dash both into Lords— justices ! misnamed— my tongue your 

perfidy shall brand. 
Betrayers of your prince's cause, and robbers 

of the land ! 
I dare your worst! — your rope, your block no 

terrors have for me. 
For the hour that saw these hands enchained, 
that hour saw Ireland free ! 



doom, 
Where the sad stars shall watch over a cavern- 
ous tomb. 

Girth and bridle and stirrup arc felt, to be 

sure 
That no flaw shall bring peril — and all is secure; | 



TYRRELLS PASS. 



46; 



Ay, bear me hence ! — what boots it now if I 

should live or die? 
Thank God ! the long-sought hour is come — 

our banners kiss the sky ! 
Albeit a worthless tool is broke — tis hallowed 

in the deed ! 
Thank God that Ireland's cause is safe — that 

I for Ireland bleed ! 
Ay, bear me to the bloody block — nor need 

ye waste your light, 
For Ulster, all ablaze, my lords, shall be our 

torch to-night ; 
Each Saxon tower that frowned upon our 

country's plundered fanes 
Shall light its felon lord, ere dawn, to dastard 

flight or chains ; 
Shall guide the steps of gathering clans, whose 

watchwords rend the sky — 
O God ! it is a happy death on such a night to 

die ! 

Clan-Connal's outlawed sons rush down o'er 

cliff and rugged rock — 
Than Erna s flood at Assaroe,more fierce and 

dread their shock ; 
As storm-clouds driven o'er Summer's sky, 

Maguire's shattered clan 
Shall sweep from Erna's hundred isles, and 

clutch their own again ; 
A thunderbolt that cleaves the heavens, with 

scathing levin bright, 
Clan-Nial's gathering masses burst o'er tower 

and town to-night ; 
O Hanlon builds his eyrie strong in Tandera- 

gee's old town; 
O'Reilly raises Brefni's kernes; Magennis 

musters Down ; 
And though not mine the glorious task my 

rightful clan to lead, 
Clan-Mahon shall not want a chief to teach it 

how to bleed ! 

Ha ! wherefore shakes that craven hand — Lord 

Justice Parsons, say ? 
Why stare so stark, my Lord Borlase ? — why 

grow so pale, I pray ? 
Methought you deemed it holy work to fleece 

"the Philistine;" 
That in "God's name " you taxed belief in 

many a goodly fine ; 
Then wherefore all these rueful looks? — " the 

Lord's work ye have done!" 
Advance the lights ! Ha ! vampire lords, your 

evil race is run. 



Ye traitors to a trusting prince ! ye robbers of 

his realm ! 
Small wonder that the ship's adrift, with 

pirates at the helm ! 
Hark ! heard 'st that shout that rang without ? 

Ye ministers of ill, 
Haste, sate ye with your latest crime while 

yet you've time to kill ! 

I dare your worst, you Saxon knaves ! then 
wherefore do you pause ? 

My blood shall rouse the Southern clans, 
though prostrate in our cause ! 

For as the resurrection flower, though with- 
ered many a year, 

Blooms fresh and bright and fair again when 
watered with a tear. 

So, nurtured in the willing wave of a martyr's 
ruddy tide. 

Our sons shall say — The Nation lived wh"-i 
Hugh MacMahon died ! 

JAxMES N. MCKANE. 



TYRRELL'S PASS.* 



The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone in 

proud array. 
To drive afar from fair Westmeath the Irish 

kerns away. 
And there is mounting brisk of steeds and 

donning shirts of mail. 
And spurring hard to MuUingar 'niong Riders 

of the Pale. 

For, flocking round his banner there, from 

east to west there came. 
Full many knights and gentlemen of English 

blood and name. 
All prompt to hate the Irish race, all spoilers 

of the land. 
And mustered soon a thousand spears that 

Baron in his band. 

For trooping in rode Nettervilles and D' Altons 

not a few, 
And thick as reeds pranced Nugent's spears, 

a fierce and godless crew ; 
And Nagle's pennon flutters fair, and, pricking 

o'er the plain, 
Dashed Tuite of Sonna's mail-clad men, and 

Dillon's from Glen-Shane. 

* The battle of Tyrrell's Pass, in Westmeath, was fought 



(J POEAfS OF HEROISM. 

A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle's Then rose a shout throughout the hall, that 

ancient hall. "lade the rafters ring. 

And to his board he summons there his chiefs And stirr'd o'erhead the banners there, like 

and captains all ; aspen leaves in spring ; 

And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy And vows were made, and wine-cups quaft. 

boast and brag with proud and bitter scorn. 

How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any To hunt to death Fctullahs clans upon the 

Cratloe stag. coming morn. 

But "mid their glee a horseman spurrd all jhese tidings unto Tyrrell came, upon that 

breathless to the gale. selfsame day. 

And from the warder there he craved to see ^vhere. camped amid the hazel boughs, he at 

Lord Barnwell straight; Lough Ennel lay. 

And when he stept the castle hall, then cried .. ^^^^j ^j^^y ^j,, ^^^^ ^^ ^- ^g cried—" why. 

the Baron. ' Ho ! ,e^ (hem if they will ; 

You are De Petifs body-squire, why stops your ^^^ ^^^ ^g.„ ^^.^^^ ^^^^ greenwood craft, to 

master so ?" ^ catch us. ere they kill." 



" Sir Piers De Petit ne'er held back," that 

wounded man replied. 
" When friend or foeman called him on. or 

there was need to ride : 
But vainly now you lack him here. for. on the 

bloody sod. 
The nobk' knight lies stark and stiff— his soul 

is with his God. 

" For yesterday, in passing through FertuUah's 

wooded glen. 
Fierce Tyrrell met my master's band, and slew 

the good knight then ; 
And wounded sore with axe and skian. I barely 

'scaped with life. 
To bear to you the dismal news, and warn you 

of the strife. 

• MacGeoghegans flag is on the hills! 
O'Reilly's up at Fore ! 

And all the chiefs have flown to arms, from 
I Allen to Donore. 

I And as I rode by Granard's moat, right plainly 
] might 1 see 

j O'Ferall's clans were sweeping down fromdis- 
1 tant Annalec." 



And hot next morn the horsemen came. 

Young Barnwell at their head ; 
But when they reached the calm lake banks. 

behold ! their prey was fled I 
And loud they cursed, as wheeling round they 

left that tranquil shore. 
And sought the wood of Garraclune. and 

searched it o'er and o'er. 

And down the slopes, and o'er the fields, and 

up the steeps they strain. 
And through Moylanna's trackless bog. where 

many steeds remain. 
Till wearied all at set of sun, they halt in 

sorry plight. 
And on the heath, beside his steed, each 

horseman passed the night. 

Next morn, while yet the white mists lay. all 

brooding on the hill, 
Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in 

every ill— 
•• O'Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed 

ye to the dell. 
Where winds the path to Kinnegad— you know 

that io^lu-r well. 



Then started up young Barnwell there, all hot 

with Spanish wine— 
•• Revenge." he cries. • for Pelit's death, and 
j be that labor mine ; 

For. by the blessed rood I swear, when 1 Wat 

Tyrrell see, 
I'll hunt to death the rebel hold, and hang 
I him on a tree !" 



'• .\nd couch ye close amid the heath, and 

blades of waving fern. 
So glint of steel, o.- glimpse of man, no Saxon 

may discern. 
Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up. 

O'Conor. then. 
.\nd bid the drums strike Tyrrell's march, 

and charge ye with your men. " 



TV/i/iELL-S PASS. 



465 



" Now, by his soul who sleeps at Cong," From front to flank the Irish charge in battle 

0"Conor proud replied, order all, 

" It grieves me sore before those dogs, to have While pent like sheep in shepherd's fold t-he 

my head to hide ; j Saxon riders fall ; 

But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go : Their lances long are little use, their numbers 



brag it thro' the Pale, 
I'll do my best that few shall live to carry 
round the tale." 



The mist roll'd off, and " Gallants, up!" young 

Barnwell loudly cries, 
" By Bective's shrine, from off the hill, the 

rebel traitor flies; 
Now mount ye all. fair gentlemen — lay bridle 

loose on mane. 
And spur your steeds with rowels sharp — we'll 

catch him on the plain." 

Then bounded to their saddles quick a thous- 
and eager men. 

And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra's 
wooded glen. 

But gallants bold, though fair ye ride, here 
slacken speed ye may — 

The chase is o'er! — the hunt is up! — the 
quarry stands at bay ! 

For halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell 

placed his band. 
And promptly stept he to the front, his banner 

in his hand. 
And plunged it deep within the earth, all 

plainly in their view. 
And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud 

his bugle blew. 

Saint Colman ! 'twas a fearful sight, while 

drum and trumpet played. 
To see the bound from out the brake that 

fierce O'Conor made. 
As waving high his sword in air he smote the 

flaunting crest 
Of proud Sir Hugh De Geneville, and clove 

him to the chest ! 

"On, comrades, on!" young Barnwell cries, 

" and spur j'e to the plain, 
Where we may best our lances use !" That 

counsel is in vain. 
For down swept Tyrrell's gallant band, with 

shout and wild halloo, 
And a hundred steeds are niasterless since 

first his bugle blew ! 



block the way. 
And mad with pain their plunging steeds adQ 
terror to the fray ! 

And of the haughty host that rode that 

morning through the dell, 
But one has 'scaped with life and limb his 

comrades' fate to tell ; 
The rest all in their harness died, amid the 

thickets there. 
Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a 

snare ! 



The Baron bold of Trimbleston has fled in 

sore dismay. 
Like beaten hound at dead of night from 

Mullingar away, 
While wild from Boyne to Brusna's banks 

there spreads a voice of wail, 
Mavronc! the sky that night was red with 

burnings in the Pale! 

! And late next day to Dublin town the dismal 
[ tidings came. 

And Kevin's-Port and Watergate are lit with 

beacons twain, 
And scouts spur out, and on the walls there 

stands a fearful crowd. 
While high o'er all Saint Mary's bell tolls out 
alarums loud ! 

But far away beyond the Pale, from Dunluce 

to Dunboy, 
From ever)' Irish hall and rath there bursts a 

shout of joy, 
As eager Asklas hurry past o'er mountain, 

moor, and glen, 
And tell in each the battle won by Tyrrell and 

his men. 

Bold Walter sleeps in Spanish earth; long 

years have passed away — 
Yet Tyrrell's-pass is called that spot, ay, to 

this very day. 
And still is told as marvel strange, how from 

his swollen hand. 
When ceased the fight the blacksmith filed 

O'Conor's trusty brand ! 

ARTHUR G. GEOGHEGAN. 



466 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



SOUTH MUNSTER CLANS MARCHING TO; 

BATTLE.-A.D. 1690. 
Hark, the distant hum ! 
The clans of stormy Desmond come 
From their rugged glens and s;ivage hills ;— 
How their warriors' laughter the bosom thrills 1 
Their hearts are dauntless, and careless and 

light.— 
Their plumes are brave, and their spears are 
bright ; j 

Each Crahadore's lip has the careless play 
And the joyous smile of a festal day ; [glow. \ 
But that lip will clench, and that eye will 
When he meets, when he meets his Saxon foe. 

I 
As the banded squadrons pass, ' 

'Tis glorious to see their banners wave. i 

With sunbeams sparkling on spear and glaive. 
On horseman's helm and on steel cuirass. j 
'Tis glorious to see by stream and glen, | 

Old Desmond's mountaineers again 
Draw from its scabbard the rusting brand. 
In the thrilling cause of fatherland ! 
Grimly crave, with a warrior joy. 
Vengeance for Smerwick and bloody Dunboy. ', 

i 
From Muskerry mountains and Carbery hills. ' 
MacCarthies have rushed like their highland 

rills ; 
MacSwinies, O'Learies. O'Riordans came. 
When the signal flew on wings of flame ; 
O'Driscolls are there, from their crag-bound 

shore ; 
And O'Mahonies, men of the woods and moor. 
Many a Duhallow battle-axe bright— 
For Clan-Awly, Clan-Keeffe, and Clan-Callag- 

han, all 
Have answered the princely MacDonogh's 

call. 
When that chieftain summoned his bands of 

might ; 
And many a clan with the Norman name — 
Like leaves of their forests Fitzgeralds came. 
Barrys. and Barrets. Sapeul, Condhune, 
From Broad Imokilly, and Kilnatalloon — 
From Orrery's valleys, and Avonmore's banks. 
In hundreds have mustered their stately ranks. 

On. on. our march must know no pause, 
Till the wolf-dog's game is in his jaws; 
On— with clear heart and footing sure, 
For our path lies by mountain and shaking 

moor. 
The river is broad, but who'd wait for a ford. 



And the cause of Ki^h Seamus in need of his 
Up, up, with the wild hurra I [sword .' 

We fight for the right, and Kigh Seamus go 
bragh .' * 

Though they file along, in their loose array. 
Like a driving cloud on a summer's day. 
So brilliant, so gallant, and gay. 
Many a light-limbed mount lineer [tear, 

Dashed from his dark eye the soul-sprung 
As he parted from maid, or from matron dear. 
Many a reckless Crahadore 
Bent o'er the maid he might clasp no more. 
On leafy Imokilly s shore. 
Von gallowglass has left his bride 
By steep Slieve Logher's heathy side. 
Rent was his manly heart with sorrow 
As she smoothed his long black hair. 
Pressed his bronzed cheek and forehead fair. 
And blessed him for the bloody morrow. 
But the griefs of the parting moment pass 
From the breast of kern and gallowglass. 
When the clairseach rings, and the baraboo. 
When he hears the chieftains war halloo. 
When he sees the war-horse champ the rein. 
And toss aloft his flowing mane. 
Blithely he marches by town and tower. 
Gone are the thoughts of the parting hour, 
Blithely he raises the shrill hurra. 
A'^/t Seamus, A'/g/i Si-amiis.go bragh. 

O. H. SUPPLE. 



MUNSTER WAR-SONG-TIME, 1190. 
Can the depths of the ocean alTord you not 

graves, 
That you come thus to perish afar o'er the 

waves ! 
To redden and swell the wild torrents that 

flow. 
Through the valley of vengeance, the dark 

Aharlow ? 

The clangor of conflict o'erburdens the breeze, 
From the stormy Slieve Bloom to the stately 

Galtees ; 
Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, 
Slievenamon, Glencoloc. and sublime Galty- 

more ! 

The Sun-burst that slumbered, embalmed in 
our tears. 

Tipperary! shall wave o'er thy tall moun- 
taineers! 



•King J« 



I for ever. 




i^^^^AoT/za^ CZd^iitH^zc' .^^ 



FONTENO V. 



467 



And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and 

spear. 
While one tyrant remains to forge manacles 

here. 

The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain, 
With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping 

mane. 
His gallant breast labors, and glares his wild 

eyes ; 
He plunges in torture — falls — shivers — and 

Let the trumpets ring triumph ! the tyrant is 

slain. 
He reels o'er his charger, deep pierced through 

the brain ; 
And his myriads are flying like leaves on the 

gale, 
But, who shall escape from our hills with the 

tale? 

For the arrows of vengeance are show'ring Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English 

like rain, 1 column failed. 

And choke the strong rivers with islands of ^.nd, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine the 

sl^i"' Dutch in vain assailed ; 



By the soul of Heremon ! our warriors may 

smile. 
To remember the march of the foe through 

our isle ; 
Their banners and harness were costly and 

gay, 
And proudly they flash'd in the summer sun's 

ray. 

The hilts of their falchions were crusted with 

gold. 
And the gems of their helmets were bright 

to behold. 
By Saint Bride of Kildare ! but they moved 

in fair show — 
To gorge the young eagles of dark Aharlow ! 
RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



FONTENOY. 



Till thy waves, lordly Shannon, all crimsonly 

flow, 
Like the billows of hell with the blood of the 

foe. 

Ay! the foemen are flying, but vainly they 

fly- 
Revenge, with the fleetness of lightning, can 

vie ; 
And the septs of the mountains spring up 

from each rock. 
And rush down the ravines like wolves on the 

flock. 

And who shall pass over the stormy Slieve 
Bloom, 

To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom, 

When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce 
mountaineers 

Leap along from the crags with their death- 
dealing spears.' 

They came with high boasting to bind us as 
slaves. 

But the glen and the torrent have yawned for 
their graves — 

From the gloomy Ardfinnan to wild Temple- 
more — 

From the Suir to the Shannon — is red with 
their gore. 



For town and slope were filled with fort and 

flanking battery. 
And well they swept the English ranks, and 

Dutch auxiliary. 
As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British 

soldiers burst. 
The French artillery drove them back, dimin- 
ished and dispersed ; 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with 

anxious eye. 
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest 

chance to try. 
On Fontenoy — on Fontenoy, how fast his 

generals ride! 
And mustering come his chosen troops, like 

clouds at eventide. 

Six thousand English veterans in stately 

column tread. 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank. Lord 

Hay is at their head ; 
Steady they step adown the slope — steady they 

climb the hill; 
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving 

right onward still, 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a 

furnace blast. 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and 

bullets showering fast ; 



468 



POEMS OF HEJiO/SM. 



And on the open plain above they rose and 

kept their course. 
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked 

at hostile force : 
Past Fontenoy— past Fontenoy, while thinner 

grow their ranks — 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through 

Holland's ocean banks. j 

More idly than the summer flies, French j 

tirailleurs rush round : 
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons I 

strew the ground ; 
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore; 

still on they marched and fired— , 

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur 

retired, ^ 

"Push on. my household cavalry!" King 

Louis madly cried : 
To death they rush, but rude their shock — 

not unavenged they died. 
On through the camp the column trod— King 

Louis turns his rein : 
■• Not yet, my liege." Saxe interposed, "the 

Irish troops remain!" 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a 

Waterloo, 
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehe- 
ment, and true. 

" Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish ; 

there are your Saxon foes !" 
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously 

he goes ! 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're 

wont to be so gay, 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 

hearts to-day — 
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 

'twas writ could Ary, 
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, 

their women's parting crj', 
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves. 

their country overthrown, 
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked 

on him alone. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- 
where. 
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than those 

proud exiles were. 

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, 

he commands, 
"Fix bay'nets" — "charge," — like mountain 

storm, rush on those fierj' bands! 



Thin is the English column now, and faint 

their volleys grow. 
Yet, must'ringall the strength they have, thr 

make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hill to fai < 

that battle wind — 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rock- 

the men behind! 
One volley crashes from their line, when, 

through the surging smoke. 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, thf 

headlong Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy. on Fontenoy. hark to that fieri ■ 

huzza ! 
" Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down 

the Sassenagh !" 

Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with 

hunger's pang. 
Right up against the English line the Irish 

exiles sprang; 
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their 

guns are filled with gore ; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, 

and trampled flags they tore ; 
The English strove with desperate strength, 

paused, rallied, staggered, fled — 
The green hill side is matted close with 

dying and with dead ; 
Across the plain and far away passed on that 

hideous wrack. 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon 

their track. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the 

sun. 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand, — the 

field is fought and won ! 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY. 
By our camp-fires rose a murmur 

At the dawning of the day. 
And the sound of many footsteps 

Spoke the advent of the fray ; 
And as we took our places. 

Few and stern were our words. 
While some were tightening horse-girths 

And some were girding swords. 

The trumpet blast has sounded 

Our footmen to array. 
The willing steed has bounded 

Impatient for the fray. 



THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 469 


The green flag is unfolded, 


0, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed 


While rose the cry of joy, 


The Briton turn to flee 


" Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner 


From the chivalry of Erin, 


This day at Fontenoy !" 


And France's " fleiir de lis." 


We looked upon that banner. 


As we lay beside our camp fires, 


And the memory arose 


When the sun had passed away, 


Of our homes and perished kindred, 


And thought upon our brethren. 


Where the Lee or Shannon flows; 


Who had perished in the fray— 


We looked upon that banner. 


We prayed to God to grant us. 


And we swore to God on high. 


And then we'd die with joy. 


To smite to-day the Saxon's might— 


One day upon our own dear land 


To conquer or to die. 


Like this at Fontenoy, 


Loud swells the charging trumpet. 


BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 


'Tis a voice from our own land- 




God of battles — God of vengeance. 




Guide to-day the patriot's brand ; 




There are stains to wash away, 


THE SWORD OF FONTENOY. 


There are memories to destroy, 


The aged Count de Macmahon 
Was at the old chateau 


In the best blood of the Briton 


To-day at Fontenoy, 


The founder of his race had won 


Plunge deep the f^ery rowels 


A century ago ; 


In a thousand reeking flanks- 
Down, chivalry of Ireland, 


Knowing the summons had been sent 


That all men must obey. 


Down on the British ranks — 


In calm and Christianly content 


Now shall their serried columns 


He on his death bed lay. 


Beneath our sabres reel— [horse. 
Through their ranks, then, with the war- 




His brother's sons stood by him then 


Through their bosoms with the steel. 


Three images of truth ; 


Two of them were already men. 


With one shout for good King Louis, 


The third was still a youth. 


And the fair land of the vine. 


In tears they stood there by his side, 


Like the wrathful Alpine tempest, 


In tears, but mute as stone. 


We swept upon their line- 


For from the day their father died 


Then rang along the battle-field 


He loved them as his own. 


Triumphant our hurrah, 




And we smote them down, still cheering 


Then spoke the Count, in accents low 


Erin, slanthagalgo bragli." * 


And weak : " Away with grief ; 




Much you must learn before 1 go. 


As prized as is the blessing 


And now my time is brief. 


From an aged father's lip — 


Your father, it need not be told. 


As welcome as the haven 


Was peer amongst his peers ; 


To the tempest-driven ship — 


He died as die the bravest, old 


As dear as to the lover 


In honor, not in years. 


The smile of gentle maid — 




Is this day of long-sought vengeance 


"A Frenchman, tho' his name and blood 


To the swords of the brigade. 


Their origin proclaimed, — 




The Iris/i name, that while he stood 


See their shattered forces flying, 


In life no falsehood shamed. 


A broken, routed line — 


A soldier, with the soldier's creed, — 


See England, what brave laurels 


Aid and relief to bring 


For your brow to-day we twine. 


His country first, whoever bleed. 


* Ireland, the bright toast forever. 


And after her, his king. 



470 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



" No matter who Lutetia throned, 

The pupp>et of an hour, 
His heart's allegiance always owned 

France as the regnant power. 
Hefore the heights of La Rothior 

He fell in the advance, 
A soldier of the Empire, for 

The Empire then was France. 

'• Long had he been from home away 

When his brave death occurred. 
Leaving two sons. — Ah! fatal day. 

He never saw the third. 
For when the sad news came, his wife. 

An angel of true love. 
Gave for his being life for life. 

And sought her home above. 

" Had he but known the truth, this will 

Would never have been made : 
Unfatherly, unjust, yet still 

His wish must be obeyed. 
The injury was undesigned : 

Through ignorance 'twas done ; — 
Surely fraternal love will find 

Some way the ill to shun." 

The will was read. The eldest son 

Their home was to receive ; 
And for his share the youngest one 

The wealth that he might leave. 
And that was all. The two sons stood 

With eyes bent on the ground ; 
They'll speak I — the old Count hoped they 

But there was not a sound. [would. 

And then he turned, as if ashamed. 

And with a kind of fear. 
To Patrick, — so the youth was named. 

Such tale who had to hear. 
But there he saw so proud a head 

It made his heart rejoice. 
And to the landless youth he said. 

In clear and ringing voice : — 

'■ I have a heritage for thee. 

That beggars house and hoard. 
If thou art of our blood ; bring me 

Yon old. time-rusted sword. 
That glorious weapon look upon 

With veneration, boy. 
Thy grandsire's grandsire bore it on 

The field of Fontenoy, 



•• Where English, Dutch and Austrian 

From dawn till set of sun 
Contended against Frenchmen, 

All unaided, all alone I 
No, not alone I what was it, then. 

The tide of battle stayed .' 
A handful of brave Irishmen. 

The famous Green Brigade. 

" Exiled for loving their old land. 

Their faith and landless king. 
Stern retribution nerved each hand 

To deadly reckoning. 
That battered piece of sturdy steel 

In mean and sordid eyes. 
And hearts that no emotion feel. 

Would be a sorrj' prize. 

" .\ thing of profitless renown 

To such 'twould only be. 
In some neglected corner thrown, — 

I give it, boy, to thee I 
Take it and keep its record bright. 

That thy grandchildren may 
In aftertime to theirs recite 

The story of to-day !" 

Silent the youth stood for a space. 

Oppressed by feeling great ; 
Then, lifting up his glowing face. 

With joy and hope elate. 
He said, as on the blade he wept, 

" Go, wealth, and home, and land I 
This precious treasure I accept 

From thy more precious hand. 

" His name and sword are all I have. 

Ambition to retain : 
And Heaven so aid me as I strive 

To guard them both from stain I" 
The old Count smiled ; in loving grasp 

Their hands were joined a while. 
Till death released the feeble clasp. 

But spared the pa.ting smile. 

Sad only for that loss the youth 

Turns from his father's land ; 
His fortune, faith and hope and truth. 

And that time-rusted brand. 
Honor's bright pathway he selects, 

Like hero of romance : 
And now that homeless boy directs 

The destiny of France. 

JOHN liROUGHAM. 



OLIVER'S ADVICE. 



THE BOYNE WATER.* 

July the first, of a morning clear, one thousand 
six hundred and ninety. 

King William did his men prepare, -of thous- 
ands he had thirty ; 

To fight King James and all his foes, encamped 
on the Boyne Water; 

He little feared, though two to one, their 
multitudes to scatter. 

King William called his oflScers, saying, 

" Gentlemen, mind your station. 
And let your valor here be shown before this 

Irish nation. 
My brazen walls let no man break, and your 

subtle foes you'll scatter; 
Be sure you show them good English play, as 

you go over the water." 

Both horse and foot they marched on, intend- 

mg them to batter. 
But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot 

as he crossed over the water, 
When that King William he observed the 

brave Duke Schomberg falling. 
He reined his horse, with a heavy heart, on the 

Enniskilleners calling; 

■' What will you do for me, brave boys — see 

yonder men retreating? 
Our enemies encourag'd are, and English 

drums are beating; " 
He says, " My boys, feel no dismay at the 

losing of one commander. 
For God shall be our king this day, and I'll be 

general under." 

Within four yards of our fore-front, before a 

shot was fired. 
A sudden snuff they got that day, which little 

they desired; 
For horse and man fell to the ground, and 

some hung in their saddle ; 
Others turn'd up their forked ends, which we 

call coup di' ladh-. 

Prince Eugene's regiment was the next, on 

our right hand advanced, 
Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish 

horses pranced — 

* These fragments of the original Boyne Water ballad are 
preserved in the "Ballad Poetry of Ireland" by Charles Gavan 
Duffy, who considers them more racy and spirited than any 
of more modern production. 



471 



But the brandy ran so in their heads, their 

senses all did scatter. 
They little thought to leave their bones that 

day at the Boyne Water. 

Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and 
heaven's and earth's Creator, 

For the deliverance that he sent our enemies 
to scatter. 

The Church's foes will pine away, like churlish- 
hearted Nabal, 

For our deliverer came this day like the great 
Zorobabel. 

So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will 

say no further. 
But had the Papists gain'd the day,there would 

have been open murder. 
Although Kmg James and many more were 

ne'er that way inclined. 
It was not in their power to stop what the 
j rabble they designed. 

ANONYMOUS. 



OLIVER'S ADVICE. 

AN ORANCE H.M.I.AI). 

The night is gathering gloomily, the day is 

closing fast — 
The tempest flaps his raven wings in loud and 

angry blast ; 
The thunder clouds are driving athwart the 

lurid sky — 
But "put your trust in God, my boys, and 

keep your powder dry." * 

There luas a day when loyalty was hail'd with 

honor due, 
Our banner the protection wav'd to all the 

good and true — 
And gallant hearts beneath its folds were 

link'd in honor's tie. 
We put our trust in God, my boys, and kept 

our powder dry. 



When Treason bar'd her bloody arm, and 

madden'd round the land. 
For King, and laws, and order fair, we drew the 

ready brand ; 

* A phrase popularly ascribed to Cromwell. ' This ballad de- 
serves a place in these pages only as an illustration of the in- 
tensely fanatical spirit actuating the Orange element in the 
past, and not wholly absent in the present. 



472 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Our gathering spell was William's name — our 

word was, " Do or die," 
And still we put our trust in God. and kept 

our powder dr)-. 

But n 



In His protecting aid confide, and every foe 

defy- 
Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 

keep your powder dry. 



ow. alas ! a wondrous change has come Already see the star of hope emits its orient 

the nation o'er. blaze. 

And worth and gallant services remembcr'd The cheering beacon of relief, it glimmers 

are no more ; l thro' the haze. 

And, crush d beneath oppression's weight, in It tells of betterdays to come, it tells of succor 

chains of grief we lie- | n'gh. 

But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 

your powder dr>'. keep your powder dry. 

Forth starts the spawn of Treason, the 'scapd i See. see along the hills of Down its rising 

of Ninety-eight. I glories spread. 

To bask in courtly favor, and seize the helm But brightest beams its radiance from 

of state Donard's lofty head. 

E'en tluy whose hands are reeking yet with \ Clanbrassils vales are kindling wide, and 

murder's crimson dye ; "^ I " Roden " is the cr>'— 

But put your trust in God. my bovs, and keep ] Then put your trust in God. my boys, and 

your powder dry. ' keep your powder dr)'. 

They come, whose deeds incarnadin'd the Then cheer, ye hearts of loyalty, nor sink in 

Slaney's silver wave— dark despair. 

They come, who to llie foreign foe the hail of Our banner shall again unfold its glories to 

welcome gave ; ^he air. 

He comes, the open rebel fierce— he comes, The storm that raves the wildest, the soonest 

the Jesuit sly ; i passes by ; 

But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep Then put your trust in God. my boys, and 

your powder dry. ' keep your powder dr>'. 



They come, whose counsels wrapp'd the land 

in foul rebellious flame. 
Their hearts unchastencd by remorse, their 

cheeks unting'd by shame. 
Be still, be still, indignant heart— be tearless, 

too, each eye, 
And put your trust in God. my boys, and keep 

your powder dry. 

The Pow'r that led his chosen, by pillar'd 

cloud and flame, 
Through parted sea and desert waste, that 

Pow'r is still the same. 
He fails not -He. the loyal hearts that lirm 

on him rely - j 

So put your tnist in God. my boys, and keep 

your powder dr)-. , 

The Pow'r that ner\'d the stalwart arms of | 

Gideon's chosen few. 
The Pow'r that led great William. Hoyne's , 

reddening torrent thro', — [ 



For "happy homes." for "altars free," we 

grasp the ready sword. 
For freedom, truth, and for our God's un- 

mutilaied word. 
These, these the war-cr^' of our march, our 

hope the Lord on high; 
Then put your trust in God, my boys, and 

keep your powder dry. 

WILLIAM BLACKER. 



KING AILILL'S DEATH.* 
I know who won the peace of God — 

The old King K\\\\\ of the Bann. 
Who fought beyond the Irish sea 

All day against a Connaught clan. 

The King was routed. In the flight 
He muttered to his charioteer. 

" Look back ; the slaughter, is it red .' 
The slayers, are they drawing near?" 



SHAr.'A"S HEAD. 



473 



The man looked back. The west wind blew 
Dead clansmen's hair against his face. 

He heard the war shout of his foes, 
The death cry of his ruined race. 

The foes came darting from the height 
Like pine trees down a swollen fall. 

Like heaps of hay in flood, his clan 
Swept on or sank — he saw it all, 

And spake, " The slaughter is full red, 
But we may still be saved by flight." 

Then groaned the King. " No sin of theirs 
Falls on my people here to-night. 

" No sin of theirs, but sin of mine. 

For 1 was worst of evil kings. 
Unrighteous, wrathful, hurling down 

To death or shame all weaker things. 

" Draw rein, and turn the chariot round. 

My face against the foemen bend. 
When I am seen and slain, mayhap 

The slaughter of my tribe will end." 

They d rew, and turned. Down came the foe. 

The King fell cloven on the sod ; 
The slaughter then was stayed, and so 

King Ailill won the peace of God. 

WHITLEY STC)KE.S, 
Earlv Middle Irish ^ Book of Lausler. 



SHAUN'S HEAD. 

Scene : — Before Dublin Castle, Night — a clansman 
of S/uuin 0" Neill discovers his chief's head on a pole. 

God's wrath upon the Saxon ; may they never 

know the pride 
Of dying on the battle-field, their broken 

spear beside ; 
When victory gilds the gory shroud of every 

fallen brave. 
Or death no tales of conquered clans can 

whisper to his grave. 
May every light from cross of Christ that saves 

the heart of man. 
Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the 

Saxon clan ; 
For sure, oh, God, and You know all } whose 

thought for all sufficed. 
To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want 

another Christ. 



Is it thus, oh, Shaun, the haughty ! Shaun, 

the valiant, that we meet ? 
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide 

me to defeat .' 
Have I no chief, or you no clan, to give us 

both defense.' 
Or must L too, be statued here with thy cold 

eloquence .' 
Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old 

Dublin's Castle tower. 
Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow 

seems rough with power ; 
Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest 

treachery stung, 
Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain 

thy fiery tongue. 

That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the 

ghost of Columbkill, 
Whose warrior words fenced 'round with 

spears the oaks of Derry Hill ; 
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to 

vassals and to knaves, 
And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish 

graves. 
The Scotch marauders whitened when his 

war-cry met their ears, 
And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised 

above his stormy cheers; 
Ay, Shaun, across the thundering sea, out- 
chanting it, your tongue. 
Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the 

Saxon Court among. 

Just think, O Shaun ! the same moon shines 

on LifTey as on Foyle, 
And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our 

kinsmen to despoil; 
And you the hope, voice, battle-ax, the shield 

of us and ours, 
A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above 

these Dublin towers. 
Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is 

paler still — 
il/c heart.' I had no heart— '/tiym yours! to 

keep or kill, 
And you kept it safe for Ireland, chief — your 

life, your soul, your pride — 
Butthey sought it in thy bosom, Shaun — with 

proud O'Neill it died. 
You were turbulent and haughty, proud and 

keen as Spanish steel; 
But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's 

chief— O'Neill.' 



474 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand " until it And here she sate alone, boys, and, looking 

paled the sun. from the hill. 

And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys, 

never done? should be a Maiden still. 

He was "turbulent" with traitors— he was _ . . 

■■ haughty •• with the foe- '''■°'" A"^"-"" ""^'"g °^'"' '" ''""''"^ "'f^'-y- 

He was "cruel, "say ye Saxons! Ah! he dealt , ''T'' , ^, uJ"^"' 

ye blow for blow ' -^ plumed and belted lover came to the Ferry 

He was "rough "and "wild," and whos not She summoned to defend her our sires-a 

wild to sec his hearthstone razed? i , beardless race— 

He was "merciless as fire "-ah, ye kindled They shouted no surrender! and slammed it 

him-he blazed! _ . i" his face. 

He was "proud!" yes. proud of birthright, and Then, in a qu.ct tone. boys, they told h.m 

because he flung away ^ 'twas the.rw.U 

Your Saxon stars of princedome, as the rock ; That the Ma.den on her throne, boys, should 

does mocking spray. 



He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay ! and 

preached it till Tyrone 
Was ruddy, ready, wild. too. with " Red 

Hands" to clutch their own. 



be a Maiden still. 



Next, crushing all before him, a kingly wooer 

came. 
(The royal banner o'er him blushed crimson 

deep for shame) ; 
He showed the Pope's commission, nor 
" The Scots are on the border. Shaun !" — ye , dreamed to be refused ; 

saints, he makes no breath— She pitied his condition, but begged to stand 

I remember when that crj' would wake him excused. 

up almost from death : I !„ short, the fact is known, boys, she chased 

Art truly dead and cold ? O. chief! art thou j him from the hill. 

to Ulster lost ? j For the Maiden on her throne, boys, would 

"Dost hear — //oj/ //^ar.? By Randolph led, the be a Maiden still. 

troops the Foyle have crossed !" i 

He's truly dead ! he must be dead ! nor is his ' On our brave sires descending, 'twas then the 

ghost about — ! tempest broke. 

And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to i Their peaceful dwellings rending, 'mid blood 

such a shout ! and flame and smoke ; 

The pale face droopeth northward — ah ! his ' That hallowed graveyard yonder swells with 

soul must loom up there, the slaughtered dead. — 

By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns. Lough I Oh ! brothers, pause and ponder it was for us 

Foyle, or Bann the fair ! they bled; 

I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must i And while their gift we own. boys. — the fane 

wander there, proud Shaun, 1 that tops the hill. — 

In search of some O'Neill through whom to O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be a 
throb its hate again. I Maiden still. 

JOHN SAVAGE. 

I Nor wily tongue shall move us. nor tyrant arm 

I affright. 

I We'll look to one above us, who ne'er forsook 
THE MAIDEN CITY. ] the right; 

Where Foyle his swelling waters rolls north- Who will, may crouch and tender the birth- 
ward to the main, 1 right of the free, [me ! 
Here, Queen of Erin's daughters, fair Derrj- But. brothers, no surrender, no compromise for 
fixed her reign ; We want no barrier stone, boys, no gates to 
A holy temple crowned her, and commerce guard the hill, 

graced her street. Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, shall be 

A rampart wall was round her, the river at a Maiden still. 

her feet; i charlotte Elizabeth. 



THE NAMING OF CUCHULLIN. 



475 



THE NAMING OF CUCHULLIN. 

[Author's no te ;— One of the stories introductory to the 
7rt/«, and, of them all, the most dramatic. The name Cu- 
Ckullain signifies the Hound of Cullan. Ca, in this mean- 
ing, is a common element of Celtic proper names. Whether 
the armorer of Slieve GuIIan was another Wayland Smith may 
amuse the ethnological inquirer. He will at least live in there- 
nowa of his chain>hound as long as Celtic literature endures.] 

Conor. 
Setanta, if bird-nesting in the woods [not 
And ball-feats on the play-ground please thee 
More than discourse of warrior and of sage, 
And sight of warrior weapons in the forge, 
I offer an indulgence. For we go — 
Myself, my step-sire Fergus, and my Bard — 
To visit Cullan, the illustrious smith 
Of Quelgne. Come thou also if thou wilt. 

Setanta. 
Ask me not, good oh Conor, yet to leave 
The play-green ; for the ball feats just begun 
Are those which most delight my playmate 

youths. 
And they entreat me to defend the goal; 
But let me follow ; for, the chariot tracks 
Are easy to discern ; and much I long 
To hear discourse of warrior and of sage, 

; And see the nest that hatches deaths of men, 

i The tongs a-flash, and Cullan's welding blow. 

i Conor. 

Too late the hour ; too difficult the way. 
Set forward, drivers ; give our steeds the goad. 

1 Cullan. 
Great King of Emain, welcome. Welcome, 

I thou, 

j Fergus, illustrious step-sire of the King ; 
And, Seer and Poet, Cathbad, welcome too. 
Behold the tables set, the feast prepared ; 
Sit. But, before I cast my chain-hound loose, 
Give me assurance that ye all be in. 
For, night descends; and perilous the wild; 
And other watchman none of house or herds. 
Here, in this solitude remote from men. 
Own I, but one hound onl)'. Once his chain 
Is loosened, and he makes three bounds at 

large 
Before my door-posts, after fall of night. 
There lives not man nor company of men 
Less than a cohort, shall, within my close 
Set foot of trespass, short of life or limb. 

Conor. 
Yea ; all are in. Let loose, and sit secure. 
Good are thy viands. Smith, and strong thine 

ale ; — 
Hark, the hound growling. 



Cullan. 

Wild dogs are abroad. 

Fergus. 
Not ruddier the fire that laps a sword 
Steeled for a king, oh Cullan, than thy wine. 
Hark, the hound baying. 

Cullan. 

Wolves, belike, are near. 
Cathbad. 
Not cheerfuller the ruddy forge's light 
To wayfarer benighted, nor the glow 
Of wine and viands to a hungry man, 
Than look of welcome passed from host to 

guest. 
Hark, the hound yelling. 

Cullan. 

Friends, arise and arm ! 
Some enemy intrudes ! Tush! 'tis a boy. 

Setanta. 
Setanta here, the son of Suailtam. 

Conor. 
Setanta, whom I deemed on Emain green 
Engaged in ball-play, on our track, indeed ! 

Setanta. 
Not difficult the task to find, oh King. 
But difficult indeed to follow home. 
Cullan, 'tis evil welcome for a guest 
This unwarned onset of a savage beast. 
Which, but that 'gainst the stone-posts of thy 

gate 
I three times threw him, leaping at my throat. 
And, at the third throw, on the stone-edge, 

slew. 
Had brought on thee the shame indelible 
Of bidden guest, at his host's threshold, torn. 

Conor. 
Yea, he was bidden: it was I myself 
Said, as I passed him with the youths at play, 
This morning, Come thou also if thou wilt. 
But little thought I, — when he said the youths 
Desired his presence still to hold the goal. 
Yet asked to follow ! for he said he longed 
To hear discourse of warrior and of sage. 
And see the nest that hatches deaths of men. 
The tongsa-flash.and Cullan's welding blow; — ■ 
That such a playful, young, untutored boy 
Would come on this adventure of a man. 

Cullan. 
I knew not he was bidden; and I asked. 
Ere I cast loose, if all the train were in. 
But, since thy word has made the boy my 

guest,— 
Boy, for his sake who bade thee to my board. 



476 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



I give thee welcome ; for thine own sake, no. j 
For thou hast slain my servant and mj' friend. 
The hound 1 loved, that fierce, intractable 
To all men else, was ever mild to me. 
He knew me ; and he knew my uttered words, 
All my commandments, as a man might know : 
More than a man, he knew my looks and 

tones — 
And turns of gesture, and discerned my mind. 
Unspoken, if in grief or if in joy. 
He was my pride, my strength, my company. 
For I am childless; and that hand of thine 
Has left an old man lonely in the world. i 

Setanta. 
Since, Cullan, by mischance I've slain thy 

hound. 
So much thy grief compassion stirs in me. 
Hear me pronounce a sentence on myself. 
If of his seed there liveth but a whelp — 
In Uladh. I will rear him till he grow 
To such ability as had his sire 
For knowing, honoring and serving thee. 
Meantime, but give a javelin in my hand. 
And a, good buckler, and there never went 
About thy bounds, from daylight-gone till 

dawn 
Hound watchfuller, or of a keener fang 
Against intruder, than myself shall be. 

CULI,AN. 

A sentence, a just sentence. 

Conor. 

Not myself 
Hath made award more righteous. Be it so. 
Wherefore, what hinders that we give him now 
His hero-name, no more Setanta called. 
But now CuchuUin, chain-hound of the Smith ? 

Sf.iania. 
Setanta. I, the son of Suiiiltam. 
No other name assume I, or desire. 

Cathbad. 
Take, son of Suailtam, the offered name. 

Setanta. 
Setanta, I. Setanta let it be. 

Conor. 
Mark Cathbad. 

Fergus. 

Cathbad. 



Tis his seer-fit. 



I hear pcrf>etual voices 
Proclaim to land and fame 

The name Cuchui-lin! 
Hound of the smith, thy boyish vow 
Devotes thy manhood even now 

To vigilance, fidelity and toil : 
Tis not alone the wolf-fang-bare to snatch. 
Not the marauder from the lifted latch 

Alone, thy coming footfall makes recoil. 
The nobler service thine to chase afar 
Seditious tumult and intestine war^ 
Envy, and unfraternal hate. 
From all the households of the state : 
To hunt, untiring, down 
The vices of the lewd-luxurious town. 

And all the brood 

Of Wrong and Rapine, ruthlessly pursued. 
Forth from the kingdom's bounds exter- 
minate. 

Thine the out-watch, when, down the darken- 
ing skies. 

The coming thunder of invasion rolls ; 
When doubts and faint replies 

Dissolve in dread the shaken People's souls: 
And Panic waits, behind her bolted gate, 
The unseen stroke ot Fate. 

Unbolt! Come forth! I hear 

His footsteps drawing near, 

Who smites the proud ones, who the poor de- 
livers : 

I hear his v/heels hurl through the dashing 
rivers ; 

They fill the narrowing glen ; 

They shake the quaking causeways of the fen; 

They roll upon the moor; 

1 hear them at the door: — 

Lauds to the helpful gods, the Hero-givers, 

Here stands he. man of men ! 

Great are the words he speaks : [nations. 

They move through hearts of kindreds and of 

At each clear sentence, the unseemly pallor 

Of fear's precipitate imaginations 

Avoids the bearded cheeks. 

And to their wonted stations 

On every face 

Return the generous, manly-mantling color 

And reassuring grace 

Of fi.\ed obedience, discipline, and patience. 

Heroic courage and protecting valor. 



To my ears 
There comes a clamor from the rising years 
The tumult of a torrent passion-swollen. 
Rolled hitherward ; and, 'mid its mingling The old true-blooded race shall not be left 
noises. Of captaincy bereft ; 



CUTHULLIN'S HEROES. 



477 



No, not altho' the ire of angry heaven 

Grow hot against it, even. 

For Gods in heaven there are 

Who punish not alone the omitted prayer. 

Who punish not alone the slighted sacrifice. 

Humanity itself, at deadly price. 

Has gained admission to the juster skies. 

And vindicates on man man's inhumanities. 

See how the strong ones languish 

And groan in woman-anguish. 

Who in the ardor of their sports inhuman 

Heard not the piteous pleadingsof the woman. 

Conor. 
Ah me, the fatal foot-race ! Macha's pangs 
Do yet torment us. 

Fergus. 

Evil was the deed. 
Happy was I who did not witness it. 
And happy you, I absent. 

Cathead. 

On their benches, 
Even in the height and glory of the revel, 
Struck prone, they writhe : 
Who now will man the trenches? 
Who, on the country's borders, 
Confront the outland sworders, [scythe 

King, priest, and lord, a swathe before the 
Of plague, laid level ? 
He, — he, — no looker-on 
At heaven-abhorred impieties is he. 
The pure, the stainless son 
Of Dectire, 

The wise, the war-like, the triumphant one 
Who holds your forest passes and your fords 
Against the alien hordes. 
Till from beneath heaven's slow-uplifted 

scourge 
The chastened kings emerge. 
And, grappling once again to manly swords. 
Roll the invader hosts 
Forever from your coasts. 

Great is the land and splendid : 

The borders of the country are extended: 

The extern tribes look up with wondering awe 

And own the central law. 

Fair show the fields and fair the friendly faces 

Of men in all their places. 

With song and chosen story. 

With game and dance, with revelry and races. 

Life glides on joyous wing— 

The tales they tell of love, and war, and glory. 

Tales that the soft bright daughters of the land 

Delight to understand. 



The songs they sing 

To harps of double string. 

To gitterns and new reeds. 

Are of the glorious deeds 

Of young Cuchullin in the Quelgnian foray. 

Take, son of Suailtam, the offered name. 
For at that name the mightiest of the men 
Of Erin and of Alba shall turn pale . 
And of that name, the mouths of all the men 
Of Erin and of Alba shall be full. 

Setanta. 
Yea, then ; if that be so— Cuchullin here ! 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



CUTHULLIN'S HEROES. 
CuthuUin sat by Tura's wall, by the tree of 
the rustling sound. 
His spear leaned against the rock. 
His shield lay on the grass by his side. 
Amid his thoughts of mighty Cairbar, a hero 

slain by the chief in war. 
The scout of ocean comes, Moran the son of 
Fithil. 

"Arise," said the youth, " Cuthullin, arise! 
I see the ships of the north! 
Many, chief of men, are the foe ; 
Many the heroes of the sea-borne Swaran !" 

" Moran !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " thou 
ever tremblest, son of Fithil ! 

Thy fears have increased the foe ! 

It is Fingal, king of deserts, with aid to green 
Erin of streams!" 

" I beheld their chief," says Moran, "tall as a 

glittering rock. 
His spear is a blasted pine. 
His shield the rising moon. 
He sat on the shore, like a cloud of mist on 

the silent hill. 
' Many, chief of heroes," I said, • many are our 

hands of war. 
Well art thou named the mighty man : but 

many mighty men are seen from Tura's 

windy walls.' 

" He spoke, like a wave on a rock: — ' Who 
in this land appears like me ? 
Heroes stand not in my presence ; they fall to 

earth from my hand. 
Who can meet Swaran in fight.' 



478 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Who but Fir.gal, King of Selma of storms ? 

Once we wrestled on Malmor : our feet over- 
turned the woods. 

Rocks fell from their place ; rivulets, changing 
their course, fled murmuring from our 
side. 

Three days we renewed the strife. 

Heroes stood at a distance and trembled. 

On the fourth. Fingal says, the King of the 
ocean fell, but Swaran says he stood. 

Let dark CuthuUin yield to him that is strong 
as the storms of his land ! ' " 

" No !" replied the blue-eyed chief, " I yield 
not to mortal man ! 
Dark CuthuUin shall be great or dead. 
Go, son of Fithil. take my spear. 
Strike the sounding shield of Semo. 
It hangs on Tura's rustling gate. 
The sound of peace is not in its voice. 
My heroes shall hear and obey !" 

He went ; he struck the bossy shield. 
The hills, the rocks reply. 
The sound spreads along the wood ; deer start 

by the lake of roes. 
Curach leaps from the sounding rock, and 

Connal of the bloody spear. 
Crugal's breast of snow beats high. 
The son of Favi leaves the dark-brown hind. 
" It is the shield of war," said Ronnart ; " the 

spear of CuthuUin," said Lugar. 
Son of the sea, put on thy arms! 
Calmar. lift thy sounding steel ! 
Puno, dreadful hero, arise 
Cairbar, from thy red tree of Cromla ! 
Bend thy knee. O Eth ; descend from the 

streams of Lena! 
Caolt, stretch thy side as thou movest along 

the whistling heath of Mora ; 
Th side that is white as the foam of the 

troubled sea, when the dark winds pour 

it on the rocky Cuthon ! 

Now I behold the chiefs, in the pride of 

their former deeds. 
Their souls are kindled at the battles of old, at 

the actions of other times. 
Their eyes are flames of fire. 
They roll in scare of the foes of the land. 
Their mighty hands are on their swords. 
Lightning pours from their sides of steel. 
They come like streams from the mountains ; 

each rushes roaring from the hill. 



ght are the chiefs of battle in the armor of 

their fathers. 
Gloomy and dark, their heroes follow, like the 

gathering of the rainy clouds behind 

the red meteors of heaven. 
The sounds of crashing arms ascend. 
The gray dogs howl between. 
Unequal bursts the song of battle. 
Rocking Cromla echoes round. 
On Lenas dusky heath they stand, like mist 

that shades the hills of autumn, when 

broken and dark it settles high and lifts 

its head to heaven. 

•• Hail !" said CuthuUin. " sons ot the narrow 

vales! hail, hunters of the deer! 
Another sport is drawing near; it is like the 

rolling of that wave on the coast. 
Or shall we fight, ye sons of war, or yield 

green Erin to Lochlin.' 
Connal, speak, thou first of men, thou breaker 

of the shields! 
Thou hast often fought with Lochlin ; wilt 

thou lift thy father's spear.'" 

"CuthuUin," calm the chief replied, "the 

spear of Connal is keen. 
It delights to shine in battle, to mix with the 

blood of thousands. 
But though my hand is bent on fight, my heart 

is for the peace of Erin. 
Behold, thou first in Cormac's war, the sable 

fleet of Swaran. 
His masts are many on our coasts, like reeds 

on the lake of Lego. 
His shipsare forests clothed with mists, when 

the trees yield by turns to the squally 

wind. 
Many are his chiefs in battle. 
Connal is for peace. 
Fingal would shun his arm. the first of mortal 

men; 
Fingal who scatters the mighty, as stormy 

winds the echoing Cona. and night set- 
tles with all her clouds on the hill !" 

"Fly. thou man of peace!" said Colmar; 

" fly," said the son of Matha. 
"Go, Connal, to thy silent hills, where the 

spear never brightens in war! 
Pursue the dark-brown deer of Cromla ; stop 

with thine arrows the bounding roes of 

Lena. 



SHEMUS O'BRIEN. 



479 



But, blue-eyed son of Semo, Cuthullin, ruler 

of the field, scatter thou the sons of 

Lochlin ! roar through the ranks of 

their pride ! 
Let no vessel of the kingdom of snow bound 

on the dark-rolling waves of Inistore. 
Rise, ye dark winds of Erin, rise ! 
Roar, whirlwinds of Lara of hinds ! 
Amid the tempest let me die, torn, in a cloud. 

by angry ghosts of men. 
Amid the tempest let Calmar die, if ever chase 

was sport to him, so much as the battle 

of shields!" 

"Calmar," Connal slow replied, "I never 

fled, young son of Matha ! 
I was swift with my friends in fight ; but small 

is the fame of Connal ! 
The battle was won in my presence ; the 

valiant overcame. 
But, son of Semo, hear my voice ; regard the 

ancient throne of Cormac. 
Give wealth and half the land for peace, till 

Fingal shall arrive on our coast. 
Or, if war be thy choice, I lift the sword and 

spear. 
My joy shall be in the midst of thousands ; my 

soul shall alighten through the gloom 

of the fight." 

" To me." Cuthullin replies, " pleasant is 

the noise of arms' 
Pleasant as the thunder of heaven before the 

shower of spring! 
But gather all the shining tribes, that I may 

view the sons of war! 
Let them pass along the heath, bright as the 

sunshine before a storm, when the west 

wind collects the clouds, and Morven 

echoes over all her oaks ! 
But where are my friends in battle ? the sup- 
porters of my arms in danger? 
Where art thou, white-bosomed Cathba.' 
Where is that cloud in war, Duchomar? 
Hast thou left me, O Fergus, in the day of 

the storm ? 
Fergus, first in our joy at the feast ! 
Son of Rossa. arm of death ! comest thou 

like a roe from Malmor .' like a hart 

from thy echoing hills ? 
Hail, thou son of Rossa ! what shades the soul 

of war.' 

As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so 
Swaran's host came on. 



As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin 

met Swaran of spears. 
Death raises all his voices around, and mixes 

with the sounds of shields. 
Each hero is a pillar of darkness ; the sword 

a beam of fire in his hand. 
The field echoes from wing to wing, as a hun 

dred hammers that rise by turns on the 

red son of the furnace. 
Who are these on Lena's heath, these so 

gloomy and dark .' 
Who are these like two clouds, and their 

swords like lightning above them' 
The little hills are troubled around ; the rocks 

tremble with all their moss. 
Who is it but Ocean's sons and the car-borne 

chief of Erin .' 
Many are the anxious eyes of their friends, as 

they see them dim on the heath. 
But night conceals the chiefs in clouds and 

ends the dreadful fight. 



'Fin ml : 



SHEMUS O'BRIEN. 
I. 
Jist after the war, in the year 'Ninety-eight, 
As soon as the Boys wor all scattered an' bate, 
'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got. 
To hang him by trial — barrin' such as was shot. 
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, 
An' the martial-law hangin' the lavings by 

night. 
It's them was the hard times for honest gos- 
soons — 
If they missed in the judges they'd meet the 

dragoons; 
An ' whether the sojers or judges gave sentence, 
The divila much time they allowed for repent- 
ance. 
An' many a fine Boy was then on his keepin'. 
With small share of restin', or sittin', or sleep- 

An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for 

to sell it, 
A prey for the bloodhound — a mark for the 

bullet — 
Unsheltered by night and unrested by day, 
With the heath for their liarrack, revenge for 

their pay ; 
An' the bravest an' honestest Boy of thim all 
Was Shemus O'Brien, from the town of Glin- 

gall. 



48o 



His limbs wor well set, an' his body was light. 
An" the keen-fanged hound had not teeth 

half as white ; 
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, 
An' his cheek never warmed with the blush of 

the red ; 
But for all that, he wasn't an ugly young boy. 
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his 

eye — 
So droll an' so wicked, so dark an" so bright. 
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the 

night. 
An' he was the best mower that ever has been. 
An' the elegantest hurler that ever was seen ; 
An' for lightness of foot sure there was not his 

f)eer. 
For, begorra, he'd almost outrun the red deer ; 
An' his dancin' was such that the men used to 

stare. 
An' the women turn crazy, he did it so quare; 
An' faith the whole world gave in to him there! 
An' its he was the Boy that was hard to be 

caught. 
An' it's often he ran, an' it's often he fought. 
An' it's many's the one can remember right 

well 
The quare things he did ; an' it's oft I heerd 

tell 
How he frightened the magistrates in Cahir- 

bally. 
An' escaped through the sojers in Aherloe 

valley, 
An' leathered the yeomen, himself agin four, 
An' stretched out the strongest on old Galti- 

more. 

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild 
deer must rest. 

An' treachery prey on the blood of the best ; 

After many a brave action of power and pride. 

An' many a hard night on the mountain's 
bleak side, 

An' a thousand great dangers an' toils over- 
past. 

In the darkness of night he was taken at last. 

Now, Shemus, look back on the beautiful 
moon, 

Fo." the door of the prison must close on you 
soon : 

An' take your last look at her dim lovely light. 

That falls on the mountain and valley this 
night; 

One look at the village, one look at the flood. 

An' one at the sheltering, far distant wood. 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill. 
Ah' farewell to the friends that will think of 

you still ; 
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake. 
An' farewell to the girl that would die for your 

sake. 
.\t\' twelve sojers brought him to Mar>'- 

borough jail. 
An' the turnkey rcsaved him,refusin' all bail ; 
The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the strong 

hands wor bound. 
An' he laid down his length on the cowld 

prison ground ; 
An' the dreams of his childhood came over 

him there 
As gentle an' soft as the sweet sumpier air; 
An' happy remimbrances crowdin' on ever. 
As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the 

river, 
Bringin' fresh to his heart merry days long 

gone by. 
Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his 

eye. 
But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his 

heart 
Would not sutTor one drop down his pale 

cheek to start ; 
An' he sprung to his feet in his dark prison 

cave. 
An' he swore with a fierceness that misery- 
gave. 
By the hopes of the good an' the cause of the 

brave. 
That when he was mouldering in the cowld 

grave. 
His inimies never should have it to boast 
His scorn of their vengeance one moment 

was lost. 
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should 

be dhry. 
For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd 

die. 

II. 
Well, as soon as a few weeks wor over an' 

gone. 
The terrible day of the trial came on ; 
There was such a great crowd, there was 

scarce room to stand. 
An' sojers on guard, an' dragoons sword in 

. hand ; 
An' the court-house so full that the people 

were bothered. 
An' attorneys and criers on the point of bcin" 

smothered : 



SHEMUS aBRIEN. 



481 



An' counsellors almost gave over for dead, 
An' the jury sittin' up in the box over-head ; 
An' the judge settled out so determined an' 

big. 
With the gown on his back, an' an elegant 

wig; 
An' silence was called, an' the minit 'twas 

said. 
The court was as still as the heart of the dead. 
An' they heard but the opening of one prison 

lock. 
An' Shenius O'Brien kem into the dock. — 
For one moment he turned his eyes round on 

the throng, 
An' then looked on the bars, so firm and so 

strong ; 
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a 

friend, 
A chance to escape nor a word to defend ; 
An' he folded his arms as he stood there 

alone. 
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone. 
An' they read a big writin,' a yard long at 

laste. 
An' Shemus didn't see it, nor mind it a taste. 
An' the judge took a big pinch of snuff, an' he 

says : 
"Are you guilty or not, Jim (J'Brien, if you 

plase.'" 
An' all held their breath in the silence of 

dread. 
An' Shemus O'Brien made answer an' said : 

" My lord, if you ask me if in my life-time 
I thought any treason, or did any crime. 
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone 

here. 
The hot blush of shame or the coldness of 

fear, 
Though I stood by the grave to receive my 

death-blow. 
Before God an' the world I would answer you 

No! 
But if you would ask me, as I think it like. 
If in the rebellion I carried a pike. 
An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to 

the close. 
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest 

foes, 
I answer you. Yes. an' I tell you again, 
Tho' I stand here to perish, it's my glory that 

then 
In her cause I was willin' my veins should 

run dry, 



An' now for her sake I am ready to die." 
Then the silence was great, an' the jury smiled 

bright. 
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made 

light. 
By my sowl. it's himself was the crabbed ould 

chap ! 
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. 
Then Shemus' mother, in the crowd standin' 

by. 

Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : 
" O, judge, darlin', don't — O, don't say the 

word ! 
The crathur is young, O have mercy my lord ! 
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was 

doin'; 
You don't know him, my lord — O, don't give 

him to ruin ! 
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest- 

hearted. 
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. 
Judge, mavournceii, forgive him, forgive him, 

my lord. 
An' God will forgive you — O don't say the 

word !" 

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken. 
When he saw he was not quite forgot or 

forsaken ; 
An' down his pale cheeks, at the words of his 

mother. 
The big tears worrunnin'one afther the other ; 
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake. 
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther 

and break ; 
But at last by the strength of his high moun- 

tin' pride. 
He conquered an' mastered his grief's swellin' 

tide; 
" An'," said he, " mother, darlin,' don't break 

your poor heart. 
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; 
An' God knows it's betther than wandherin' 

in fear 
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the 

wild deer. 
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart and 

breast. 
From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever 

shall rest. 
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more. 
Don't make me seem broken in this, my last 

hour; [raven. 

For I wish, when my head's lying under the 



482 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



No thrue man can say that I died like a 

craven !" 
Then towards the judge Shemus bent down 

his head. 
An' that minute the solemn death-sentence 

was said. 



The mornin'was bright, an' the mists rose on 

high. 
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky- 
But why are the men standin' idle so late? 
An' why do the crowd gather fast in the street ? 
What come they to talk of ?— what come they 

to see ? 
An' why does the long rope hang from the 

cross-tree ? 
O Shemus O'Brien, pray fervent an' fast ! 
May the saints take your soul, for this day is 

your last. 
Pray fast an' pray strong, for the moment is 

nigh. 
When strong, proud an' great as you are you 

must die! — 
At last they threw open the big prison gate. 
An' out came the sheriffs an' sojers in state ; 
An' a cart in the middle, an' Shemus was in it, 
Not paler, but prouder than ever that minit; 
An' as soon as the people saw Shemus O'Brien. 
Wid prayin' and blessin'. an' all the girls cryin'. 
A wild wailin' sound kern on all by degrees. 
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowm' 

through trees! 
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone. 
An' the car an' the sojers go steadily on. 
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart. 
A wild sorrowful sound that would open your 

heart. 
Now under the gallows the car takes its stand. 
An' the hangman get.s up with a rope in his 

hand. 
\\\ the priest having blest him gets down on 

the ground ; 
An' Shemus O'Brien throws one look around. 
Then the hangman drew near, and the people 

grew still. 
Young faces turn sickly, an' warm hearts turn 

chill ; 
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made 

bare, 
For the gripe of the life-stranglin' cords to 

prepare ; 
And the good priest has left him, havin' said 

his last prayer. 



But the good priest did more— for his hands 

he unbound. 
An' with one darin, spring Jim has leaped on 

the ground! 
Bang! bang! go the carbines, an' clash go 

the sabres ; 
He's down ! he's alive ! now attend to him, 

neighbors! 
By one shout from the people the heavens are 

shaken — 
One shout that the dead of the world might 

awaken. 
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines 

go bang. 
But if you want hangin' 'tis yourselves you 

must hang ! 
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe glin. 
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him 

agin. 
The sojers ran this way. the sheriffs ran that. 
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat: 
KW the sheriffs wor both of them punished 

severely. 
An' fined like the divil, because Jim done 

them fairly. 
A week after that, without firin' a cannon, 
A sharp Yankee schooner sailed out of the 

Shannon ; 
The captain left word he was goin' to Cork — 
But the divil a bit — he was bound for New- 
York. 

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE F.Wr 



THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGH.* 
When the breach was open laid, bold we 

mounted to the attack ; 
Five times the assault was made, five times 

were we beaten back. 
Many a gallant comrade fell in the desperate 

mMe there ; 
Sped their spirits ill or well, know I not nor 

do I care. 

But the fifth time up we strode, o'er the dying 

and the dead ; 
Hot the western sunbeam glowed, sinking in 

a blaze of red ; 
Redder in the gory way our deep-plashing 

footsteps sank. 
As the cry of " Slay. slay, slay !" echoed fierce 

from rank to rank. 



In i6]i 



the Thirty Years' > 



THE GASCON UDRISCOL. 



And we slew, and slew, and slew — slew them 

with unpitying sword, 
Negligently could we do the commanding of 

the Lord ? 
Fled the coward, fought the brave — wailed 

the mother, wept the child, 
But not one escaped the glaive, man who 

frowned or babe who smiled. 

There were thrice ten thousand men when 

the morning sun arose ; 
Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk 

that sun at evening close. 
Then we spread the wasting flame, fanned to 

fury by the wind ; 
Of the city but the name — nothmg more is 

left behind ! 

Hall and palace, dome and tower, lowly shed 

and soaring spire. 
Fell in that victorious hour, which consigned 

the town to fire. 
All that rose at craftsman's call to its pristine 

dust had gone. 
For, inside the shattered wall, left we never 

stone on stone ; — 

For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield 
of spoil ; 

Should not brave soldados have some reward- 
ing for their toil ? 

What the villain sons of trade had amassed 
by years of care. 

Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one moment 
won, was there. 

Then, within the burning town, 'mid the 

steaming heaps of dead. 
Cheered by sounds of hostile moan, we the 

joyous banquet spread ; 
Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our 

glorious labors o'er. 
To the sky our jocund song told the city was 

no morel william maginn. 



THE MINE OF TORTONA. 
Cannon from the ramparts flashing 

Round besieged Tortona rang. 
And the stormers forward dashing. 

Up the crackling ladders sprang. 
" Hark, Carew !" the Marshal crieth, 

" Yonder hell-pit must be ours 
Ere the flag of Naples flieth 

O'er Tortona's vanquished towers. 



48 3 

" Ever first in toil and danger, 

Breach and charge and storm, is seen 
Thy gay ensign, gallant stranger, 

Erin's plume of floral green. 
I know thee brave — yon desp'rate station 

Rests upon a hostile mine ; 
Noblest of a noble nation ! 

Honor's post or death is thine." 

At his chieftain's praises blushing. 

Proudly smiled the young Carew, 
And with eager ardor rushing. 

Up the masked volcano flew. 
Death's around, above, and under. 

Batteries from the trenches ring. 
Cannons from the ramparts thunder. 

Shot and shell around him sing. 

•• Comrades ! still our scanty ration 

Yields another cup of wine ; 
Let us pour a last libation. 

Merry home I to thee and thine. 
Erin ! land of song and beauty. 

Welcome every fate shall be, 
If the most appalling duty 

Add one wreath of fame to thee. 

" Here we drink to those who, falling 

Clasped in battle's red embrace. 
Nobly sleep 'mid trumpets calling 

' Victory ' o'er their resting place." 
So peal out the clarions loudly. 

Cease the bursting shell and gun. 
And the hero, smiling proudly. 

Sheathes his sword — Tortona's won I 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



THE GASCON O'DRISCOL. 
In old O'Driscol's pedigree, 

'Mong lords of ports and galleys, 
' The Gascon " whence.' and who was he 
First bore the surname ? tell us. 
Not difficult the task 
To answer what vou ask. 



The merchants from the Biscay sea 

To ports of Munster sailing. 
With wines of Spain and Gascony 
Supplied carouse unfailing 
To guests of open door. 
Of old, at Baltimore. 



484 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Till when against one festal day 

. O'Driscol stocked his cellars. 

He found not but of gold to pay 

1 n part the greedy dealers ; 

And, for the surplusage ; 

Gave this good son in pledge. 

They bore the boy to fair Bayonne, 

Where vines on hills were growing ; 
And, when the days of grace were gone. 
And still the debt was owing. 
The careful merchant's heart 
Grew hard with angry smart. 

" The wine I sold the Irish knave 

Is spent in waste and surfeit ; 
The pledge for payment that he gave 
Remains, a sorry forfeit : — 
Bring forth the hostage boy 
And set him on employ." 

" Now, youth, lay by the lettered page, 

Leave Spanish pipe and tabor 

To happier co-mates of thy age. 

And put thy hands to labor. 

Ten ridged rows of the vine 

To dress and till be thine." 

From solar-chamber came the lad ; 

In sooth a comely creature 
As e'er made eye of mother glad 
In well-shaped limb and feature. 
As 'mid the vines he stepp'd. 
His cheek burned, and he wept. 

"The grief that wrings this pungent tear 

Springs not from pride or anger ; 
Let be the hoe my hunting-spear. 
The pruning knife my hanger; 
The work ye will I'll do, 
But deem my kinsmen true. 

" Be sure in some unknown resort 

Their messengers have tarried ; 

Some head-wind held their ship in port. 

Some tribute-ship miscarried ; 

Else never would they leave 

Their pledge without reprieve. 

" I've seen when, round the banquet board, 

:"rom stintless-circling beaker— 
To all the Name our butlers pour'd 
The ruby royal liquor. 

And every face was bright 
With mirth and life's delight. 



'• And. as the warming wine exhaled 

The shows of outward fashion. 
Their very hearts I've seen unveil'd 
In gay and frank elation ; 
And not a breast but grew 
More trusty, more seen through. 

" These vineyards grew the grape that gave 

My soul that fond assurance ; 

And if for them 1 play the slave, 

I grudge not the endurance. 

Nor stronger mandate want 

To tend the truthful plant." 

The seniors of the sunny land 

Beheld him daily toiling — 
(Old times they were of instincts bland 
The pagan heart assoiling — ) 
And this their frequent speech 
And counsel, each with each : — 

" A patient boy, with gentle grace 

He bears his yoke of trouble; 
Serenely grave the ample face. 
The gesture large and noble, 
Erect, or stooping low. 
Along the staky row. 

" Where'er he moves, the sen-ing train 

Accord him their obeisance ; 
The ver\' vintagers refrain 
Their rude jests in his presence ; 
And — what is strange, indeed — 
His vines their vines exceed. 

•'The tendrils twine, the leaves expand. 

The purpling bunches cluster 
To pulpier growth beneath his hand. 
As tho' 'twere form'd to foster. 
By act of mere caress. 
Life, wealth and joyousness. 

" It seems as if a darkling sense 
In root and stem were native : 
As if an answering influence 
And virtue vegetative 
(Anointed Kings own such) 
Went outward from his touch. 

•' Behold, his nation's sages say 

A righteous King's intendancc 
Is seen in fishy-teeming bay 

And corn-field's stooked abundance. 
In udder-weighted cows 
And nut-bent hazel boughs. 



THE REVELRY OF THE DYING. 



485 



" These Scots apart in ocean set 

Since first from Shinar turning, 
Preserve the simple wisdom yet 
Of mankind's early morning 
While God with Adam's race 
Still communed, face to face. 

" Not in the written word alone 

He woos and warns the creature ; 
His will is still in wonders shown 
Through manifesting Nature ; 
And Nature here makes plain 
This youth was born to reign. 

" 111 were it for a merchant s gains. 

To leave, at toil appointed 
For horny-handled village swains, 
God's designate anointed: 
But good for him and us 
The act magnanimous. 

" Blest are the friends of lawful kings 

To righteous rule consenting: 

Secure the blessings that he brings 

By clemency preventing ; 

And granting full release. 

Return him home in peace. 

" And, ere your topsails take the wind. 

Stow ye within his vessel 

A pipe the richest search may find 

In cellars of the Castle ; 

Of perfume finer yet 

Than rose and violet. 

" Then, when, at home, his km shall pour 

The welcoming libation. 
Such rapture-pitch their souls shall soar 
Of sweet exhilaration, 
As Bacchus on his pard 
With moist eye might regard. 

They stowed the ship ; he stepp'd onboard 

In seemly wise attended ; 
But this was still his parting word 
When farewells all were ended : 
" Be sure my father yet 
Will satisfy the debt." 

And, ever as from the harbor mouth 

They northward went careering. 
They passed to windward, steering south, 
O'Driscol's galley bearing. 
From Baltimore the gold 
Of ransom safe in hold. 

S.'VMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE REVELRY OF THE DYING.* 
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 

And the walls around are bare ; 
As they shout to our peals of laughter 

It seems that the dead are there. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

We drink to our comrades' eyes,— 
Quaff a glass to the dead already ; 

And hurrah ! for the next that dies. 

Not here are the goblets flowing ; 

Not here is the vintage sweet ; 
'Tis cold, as our hearts are growing, 

And dark as the doom we meet. 
But stand to your glasses, steady ! 

And soon shall our pulses rise, — 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah ! for the next that dies. 

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles ; 

Not a tear for the friends that sink ; 
We'll fall 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles, 

As mute as the wine we drink. 
So stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis this that the respite buys ; 
One cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah ! for the next that dies. 

Time was when we frowned at others; 

We thought we were wiser then. 
Ha — ha ! let them think of their mothers 

Who hope to see them again. 
So stand to your glasses, steady ! 

The thoughtless are here the wise ; 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah! for the next that dies. 

There's many a hand that's shaking ; 

There's many a cheek that's sunk; 
But soon, tho' our hearts are breaking. 

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. 
So stand to your glasses steady ! 

'Tis here the revival lies ; 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah! for the next that dies. 

There's a mist on the glass congealing ; 

'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath- 
And thus does the warmth of feeling 

Turn to ice in the grasp of death. 



* Nothing conclusive is known about the authorship of this 
remarkable poem. It is, however, generally attnbuted to an 
Irish officer in the English service in India. The poem is 
understood to have been written while a pestilence was raging 
where the author's regiment was stationed. 



486 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! 

For a moment the vapor flies ; 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah ! for the next that dic-s. 

Who dreads to the dust returning? 

Who shrinks from the sable shore. 
Where tl>e high and haughty yearning 

Of the soul shall sing no more? 
Ho! stand to your glasses steady ' 

The world is a world of lies; 
A cup to the dead already ; 

Hurrah! for the next that dies. 

Cut of! from the land that bore us. 

Betrayed by the land we find. 
Where the brightest have gone before U! 

And the dullest remain behind. 
Stand !— stand to your glasses, steady ! 

'Tis all we ha\e left to prize ; 
A cup to the dead already; 

And hurrah! for the next that dies. 

ANONYMOUS. 



" Thou mayest quench thy thirst securely, for 
thou shall not die before 

I Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this 
reprieve is thine — no more!" 

yuick the satrap tiasnen the goblet down to 

earth with ready hand. 
And the liquid sank forever, lost amid the 

burning sand. 

; "Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the 

water of that cup 
' I have drained ; then bid thy servants that 
j spilled water gather up!" 

I For a moment stood the Caliph as by doubtful 
■ 1 passions stirred— 

Then exclaimed : " Forever sacred must 
remain a monarch's word. 

, ■' Bring another cup, and straightway to the 
I noble Persian give : 

' Drink, I said before, and perish, — now I bid 
thee drink and live !" 

RICHAKU CHKNKVIX TKEN'CH. 



HARMOSAN. 
Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian 

throne was done. 
And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning 

victory won. 

Harmosan. the last and boldest the mvader 

to defy, 
Captive, overborne by numbers, they were 

bringing forth to die. 

Then exclaimed that noble captive : " Lo. 1 

perish in my thirst ; 
Give me but one drink of water, and let then 

arrive the worst!" 

In his hand he took the goblet: but a while 

the draut;ht forbore, 
Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen 

to explore. 

Well might then have paused the bravest,— 
for, around him, angr)' foes 

With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely 
man enclose. 

" But what fearest thou ? " cried the Caliph, 
" is it, friend, a secret blow? 

Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such 
treacherous dealing know. 



LEON I DAS. 
Shout for the mighty men 

Who died along this shore. 
Who died within this mountain's glen! 
For never nobler chieftain's head 
Was laid on hero's crimson bed. 

Nor ever prouder gore 
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day 
Upon thy strand. Thermopyla; ! 

Shout for the mighty men 

Who on the Persian tents. 

Like lions from their midnight den 

Bounding on the slumbering deer. 

Rushed — a storm of sword and spear ; 
Like the roused elements 

Let loose from an immortal h.md, 

To chasten or to crush a land I 

But there are none to hear,— 

Greece is a hopeless slave. 

Leonidas, no hand is near 

To lift thy fiery falchion now; 

No warrior makes the warrior's vow 
Upon thy sea-washed grave. 

The voice that should be raised by men 

Must now be given by wave and glen. 



THE CID'S PEXXOX. 



48/ 



And it is given! — ^thc surge. 

The tree, the rock, the sand 
On freedom's kneeling spirit urge 
In sounds that speak but to the free. 
The memory of thine and thee ! 
The vision of thy band 
Still gleams within the glorious dell 
Where their gore hallowed as it fell. 

And is thy grandeur done .' 

Mother of men like these ! 

Has not thy outcry gone 

Where justice has an ear to hear ? — 

Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear, 
Till in thy crimsoned seas 

Are plunged the chain and scimitar. 

Greece shall be a new-born star ! 



GEORGE CROLY. 



THE CID'S PENNON. 

Bivarand his three hundred knights. Hidal- 
gos brave of Spain, 

Look down from Alcozero's heights upon the 
battle-plain ; 

The turban'd Moslems press and throng 
around on ever)' side. 

Like a river of steel that rolls along in the 
might of its wintry tide. 

The steeds they neigh, the banners play! 

flasheth the polished steel ! 
The scimetar is bared for war! the gongs 

and trumpets peal ! 
The Moslem gazeth on the lower with a wild 

and fearful glare ; — 
The Christians dare not face that power, nor 

brave the thousands there. 

'Twasthen. Minaya thus addressed th' Hidal- 
gos, leal and brave. — 

" Fear not ! The banners have been blest 
that o'er your helmets wave ; 

From Leon, many a weary mile, the Cid your 
host hath led ; 

On yonder plain let slaughter pile her heaps 
of Moslem dead ! 

" The caged lion turns and tears the foes that 

wound him sore — • 
Fear ye to face the Moslem spears with the 

brave El Campeador ? 
Burst from your prison. Leonese ! Rend everj' 

bolt and bar! 
Let your proud pennon flout the breeze ! Our 

leader's De Bivar ! " 



Then doffed the Cid his casque, and said, 

" Minaya. brave thy word ! 
Ere falleth even's russet shade we'll scatter 

yonder horde! 
Castile should never blush to have warriors 

brave as thou ; — 
Sons who'd as gladly hail the grave as laureis 

on their brow ! 

" Forth ! show the Moslem on yon plains, 

whose crescent brightly gleams. 
The blood that thro' Castilian veins doth flow 

in burning streams. — 
Show them in battle's bright career, 'tis honor 
\ leads ye on ; 

I That honor, still, shall deck your bier, your 
fathers wooed and won \ 

" Show them your fathers feared not death, 
and their sons are now as brave ; 

Show them that triumph's holy breath yet 
flutters o'er their grave ! 

Tis not the part of Spanish knight, till con- 
quest come, to die ; — 

Till with crimson wing she fan the fight, like 
eagle from on high!" 

He said, and to the doughty Knight. Bermu- 
j dez. true and bold, 

I He gave in charge his pennon bright ; the 
1 lion marked its fold. 

•' Hidalgo ! clasp it to thine heart, whether 

thou fight or flee ; — 
Be it sooner rent by Moslem dart than ever 
torn from thee ! "' 

'• Brave Cid ! " the mailed warrior said. " thy 

streamer now is mine ! 
In triumph o'er each Moor shall tread the 

lion's dauntless sign, — 
This lion. Cid ! by heaven. I swear ! as Pedro 

wears a sword, 
Shall make, this day, his bloody lair amid yon 

turban'd horde!" 

He seized the flag; and, like the light of 

morn o'er hill and vale. 
Headlong spurred on the Spanish knight. — 

the shafts they sped like hail. — 
"Come on. Hidalgos, everyone! your lion 

tramps the breeze ! 
We'll have, by heav'n ! ere set of sun, ten 

Moors for a Leonese ! " 

EDWARD MATURIX. 



1 



488 



POEAfS OF HEROISM. 



WAITING FOR WASHINGTON. 

On Broadway, Evacuation Day, 1783. 

To the rattle of drums 

He conies, he comes ! 
With our heroes stepping in marching time. 

How the bay'nets flash 

And the cymbals crash. 
While St. Paul's is ringing a thunderous chime. 

My whole soul hums 

To the rolling drums 
And my pulse goes fast as the fifers blow. 

Now would that its beat 

Could quicken their feet. 
Neighbors, the column seems tired and slow. 

Not a redcoat's seen 

On the Bowling Green, 
And the flag's torn down that we all abhor ; 

And Washington comes 

To the rattle of drums ; 
It is worth the waiting through all the war. 

Now, surely, they lag. 

Lord ! Our battle-flag ! 
See it streaming out as they move again ! 

Let our shouts and cheers 

Reach the redcoats' ears ; [men. 

They'll know we're welcoming Washington's 

Now quick is the pace. 

Wc shall see his face. 
And know in its joy that, indeed, we're free. 

To light it up so 

As we'd have it glow 
There's not enough sunshine on land or sea. 

God bless him ! He comes. 

Now rattle, brave drums ; 
See him there as man never was seen before ! 

He rides calm amid all. 

Though the heavens fall. 
We know that no tvrant shall rule us more I 



1883. 
And the drummers shall drum 

.\nd the fifers blow 
And the crowd shall hum 

.And the bonfires glow 
And joy from the heart in a torrent come 

As it came a hundred years ago. 

JOSEPH 1. C. CLARKE. 



SERGEANT MOLLY.* 
The snows were melted from Valley Forge ; 
■ The blood was drunk by the sodden clay. 
And. counting the score against King George. 
They sharpened their swords for Monmouth 
day. 

Hut the devil may take the caitiff Lee I 
In the front of battle his courage quailed. 

And the lions leaping to victor)' [failed. 

Fell back when their leader's hare-heart 

Till the Chieftain came with his face aflame. 
And an angr)' hand on a ready hilt. 

Halting the mob with a taunt of shame. 
And a hot. fierce curse on the traitor's guilt. 

So we see him now in his god-like wrath 

Firing the souls of meaner clay. 
Standing athwart the victor's path. 

And turning the tide of Monmouth day. 

And once again when the battle's won. 

And the beaten foe in ignoble flight. 
He calls for the soldier who served the gun 

In Wayne's brigade on the bloody right. 

Howthe soldiers cheer, in their comrade pride! 

As a woman steps from the cannoneers. 
And her mantling blushes fail to hide 

The smoke of battle and stain of tears. 

She is only a soldier's Irish wife; 

But yesterday, when the fight went hard. 
The hot heart's blood of her soldier's life 

Made a pool by his gun on Monmouth sward. 

And the captain turned away his head.- 
"Take out of the battle the idle gun : 

There's no one to serve it now." he said . 
But a white-faced woman cried, " Ves. 
there's one." 

And all day long, through the fire and smoke. 

And the din of battle and bullet's hum. 
The battery's thund'rous voice outspoke. 

And Pitcher's cannon was never dumb. 

Powder-stained is the brown hand yet. 

As the Chieftain holds it and speaks his 
thanks. 
And '• Sergeant Molly." by his brevet. 
Goes proudly back to the cheering ranks. 
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 

who served her husband's 



• The famous " Moll Pitcher, 
;un at the battle of Monmouth, 
omplimcnted by Washin^^ton wi 



h a commission as sergeant. 



MOYLA.V AT MONMOUTH. 



489 



CHARONDAS. 
He lifted his forehead, and stood at his height, 

And gathered the cloak round his noble age, 
This man, the law-giver, Charondas the Greel<; 
And loudjthe Euboeans called to him ; " Speak, 

We listen and learn, O Sage !" 

" In peace shall ye come where the people be," 

Spake the lofty figure, with flashing eyes : 
" But whoso comes armed to the public hall 
Shall suffer his death before us all." 
And the hearers believed him wise. 

The years sped quick and the years dragged 
slow ; 

In council oft was the throng arrayed, 
But never the statued chamber saw 
The gleam of a weapon ; for, loving the law, 

The Greeks from their hearts obeyed. 

War's challenge knocked at the city gates; 

Students flocked to the front, grown bold ; 
The strong men. girded, faced up to the north : 
The women wept to the gods ; and forth 

Went the brave of the days of old. 

Peace winged her flight to the city gates ; 

Young men and strong, they followed fast. 
Back to the breast of their fair, free land : 
Charondas, afar on the foreign strand. 

Remained at his post the last. 

Their leader he. in war as in word. 

The fire of youth for his life-long lease. 
The strength of Mars in the arm that stood 
Seven hot decades upheld for good 

In the turbulent courts of Greece 

The fight is finished, the council meets. 

Who is the tardy comer without. 
In cuirass and shield, and with clanking sword. 
Who strides up the aisles without a word, 

Rousing that awe-struck shout ? 

The tardy comer home from the field — 

Great gods ! the first to forget and belie 
The law he honored, the law he formed : 
" Charondas — stand ! you enter armed," 
With a shudder the hundreds cry. 

The men who loved him on every side. 
The men he led to the victor's gain. 
He paused a moment, the fearless Greek, 
A sudden glow on his ashen cheek, 
A sudden thought in his brain. 



•' I seal the law with my soul and might 
I do not break it," Charondas said. 

He raised his blade, and plunged to the hilt. 

Ah ! vain their rush, for in glory and guilt. 
He lay on the marble, dead. 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



MOYLAN AT MONMOUTH. 
Our banners blaze on Monmouth plain, 

Our steeds all harnessed be ; 
And as they feel the curbing rein. 

They struggle to be free. 
Steady ! not yet the hour for fight ; 
Wait till the foemen come in sight, 
With girth and saddle girded tight. 
Then burst upon them, left and right, 

Like billows of the sea ! 

Hark ! to the rolling of his drums, 

H is vanguards coming near ; 
O'er yonder height stern Clinton comes. 

With many a musketeer; 
And Moncton's ringing bugle-swell 
To Moylan's willing troopers tells 
That hard and fast thro' dale and dell 
His mustering troops appear. 

See ! with a rush they gain the glen ; 

How fast their horsemen fly! 
Now ! forward on their columns, men, 

And spur and sabre ply ! 
Hurrah ! dash on ! Their lines of red 
Shall writhe beneath our troopers' tread, 
And on the field, in heaps of dead. 

Their trampled ranks shall lie ! 

The woods resound the answering shout 

That rises from, our ranks ; 
We burst, as burst the waters out 

From Mississippi's banks. 
Upon their lines with ringing blade 
Our fierce and furious charge is made. 
Till backward, bleeding and dismayed. 
Rolls Clinton's grenadier brigade, 

Hard pressed from front to flank. 

Down from the rough and rugged height 

Fierce Moncton's column comes; 
Forward ! with Moylan on the right, 

And charge upon his g^ns ! 
Hurrah ! 'tis done ; with blade and ball 
Upon his foremost ranks we fall. 
Till, torn and shattered, one and all 
Are trampled in the fight. 



490 



rOEAfS OF HEROISM. 



So perish all whose servile swords 

I'phold a despot s sway ; 
So perish all who kings and lo.ds 

With slavish souls obey. 
The glorious flag of Washington, 
May its bright folds still greet the sun 
When kings and tyrants every one 

From earth have passed away I 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 



THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON. 
Tugged the patient, panting horses, as the 

coulter keen and thorough. 
By the careful farmer guided, cut the deep 

and even furrow : 
Soon the mellow mould in ridges, straightly 
; pointing as an arrow, 

1 Lay to wait the bitter vexing of the fierce, 
I remorseless harrow — 

, Lay impatient for the seeding, for the growing 

and the reaping, 
I All the richer and the readier for the quiet 
winter-sleeping. 

At his loom the pallid weaver, with his feet 

upon the treadles, 
Watched the threads alternate rising, with the 
I lifting of the hcddles— 

Not admiring thai, so swiftly, at his eager 
I fingers' urging, 

I Flew the bobbin-loaded shuttle, 'twixt the 

filaments diverging; 
j Only labor dull and cheerless in the work 
before him seeing. 
As the warp and woof uniting brought the 
figures into being. 

Roared the fire before the bellows; glowed 
the forge "s dazzling crater; 

Rang the hammers on the anvil, both the 
lesser and the greater ; 

Fell the sparks around the smithy, keeping 
rhythm to the clamor. 

To the ponderous blows and clanging of each 
unrelenting hammer. 

While the diamonds of labor, from the curse of 
Adam borrowed, 

Glittered in a crown of honor on each iron- 
beater's forehead. 

Through the airtherecame a whisper, deepen- 
ing quickly into thunder. 



How the deed was done that morning that 
] would rend the realm asunder; 

How^ at Lexington the Briton mingled cause- 
less crime with folly, 

.And a king endangered empire by an ill-con- 
sidered volley. 

Then each heart beat quick for vengeance, i..s 
the anger-stirring stor)- 

Told of brethren and of neighbors lying corses 
stiff and gor)'. 

Stops the plough and sleeps the shuttle, stills 
I the blacksmith's noisy hammer. 

Come the farmer, smith, and weaver, with a 
! wrath too deep for clamor ; 

But their fiercely purposed doing every glance 

they give avouches, 
.•Vs they handle rusty firelocks, powder-horns, 

and bullet-pouches ; 
As they hurrj' from the workshops, from the 

fields, and from the forges, 
Venting curses deep and bitter on the latest 

of the Georges, 

Matrons gather at the portals — some with 

children round them grouping, 
Some are filled with exultation, some are sad 

of soul and drooping — 
Gazing at our hasty levies as they march 

unskilled but steady. 
Or prepare their long-kept firelocks, for the 
! combat making ready — 

Mingling smiles with tears, and praying for 

our men and those who lead them. 
That the gracious Lord of battles to a triumph 

sure may speed them. 

1 was but a beardless stripling on that chilly 
April morning, 
, When the church-bells backward ringing, to 
1 the minute-men gave warning; 

But I seized my father's weapons — he was 
dead who one time bore them — 
I And I swore to use them stoutly, or to never- 
more restore them ; 
Bade farewell to sister, mother, and to one 

than either dearer. 
Then departed as the firing told of red-coals 
drawing nearer. 

On the Britons came from Concord — 'twas a 

name of mocking omen ; 
Concord nevermore existed 'twixt our people 
, and the foemen — 



THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON. 



491 



On they came in haste from Concord, where 

a few had stood to tight them, 
Where they failed to conquer Buttrick, who 

had stormed the bridge despite them ; 
On they came, the tools of tyrants, 'mid a 

people who abhorred them ; 
They had done their master's bidding, and we 

purposed to reward them. 

We, at Merriam's Corner posted, heard the 
fifing and the drumming. 

In the distance creeping onward, which pre- 
pared us for their coming ; 

Soon we saw the lines of scarlet, their ad- 
vance to music timing. 

When our captain quickly bade us pick our 
flints and freshen priming. 

Then our little band of freemen, couched in 
silent ambush lying. 

Watched the forces, full eight hundred, as 
they came with colors flying. 

'Twas a goodly sight to see them ; but we 
heeded not its splendor. 

For we felt their martial bearing hate within 
our hearts engender, 

Kindling fires within our spirits, though our 
eyes a moment watered. 

As we thought on Moore and Hadley, and 
their brave companions slaughtered ; 

And we swore to deadly vengeance for the 
fallen to devote them. 

And our rage grew hotter, hotter, as our well- 
aimed bullets smote them. 

Then in overpowering numbers, charging 

bayonet, came their flankers; 
We were driven as the ships are, by a tempest, 

from their anchors. 
But we loaded while retreating, and regaining 

other shelter, 
Saw their proudest on the highway in their 

life-blood fall and welter, 
Saw them fall or dead or wounded, at our fire 

so quick and deadly, 
While the dusty road was moistened with the 

torrent running redly. 

From behind the mounds and fences poured 

the bullets thickly, fastly ; 
From ravines and clumps of coppice leaped 

destruction grim and gliastly ; 
All around our leaguers hurried, coming 

hither, going thither. 



Yet when charged on by their forces, disap- 
pearing, none knew whither; 

Buzzed around the hornets ever, newer swarms 
each moment springing. 

Breaking, rising, and returning, yet continu- 
ally stinging. 

When to Hardy's Hill their weary, waxing- 

fainter footsteps brought them. 
There again the stout Provincials brought 

the wolves to bay and fought them ; 
And though often backward beaten, still 

returned the foe to follow, 
Making forts of every hill-top and redoubts 

of every hollow. 
Hunters came from every farm house, joining 

eagerly to chase them — 
They had boasted far too often that we would 

not dare to face them. 

How they staggered, how they trembled, how 

they panted at pursuing. 
How they hurried broken columns that had 

marched to their undoing; 
How their stout commander, wounded, urged 

along his frightened forces. 
That had marked their fearful progress by 

their comrades' bloody corses; 
How they rallied, how they faltered, how in 

vain returned our firing. 
While we hung upon their footsteps with a 

zealousness untiring. 

With nine hundred came Lord Percy, sent by 

startled Gage to meet them, 
And he scoffed at those who suffered such a 

horde of boors to beat them ; 
But his scorn was changed to anger, when on 

front and flank were falling, 
From the fences, walls, and roadside, drifts of 

leaden hail appalling; 
And his picked and chosen soldiers, who had 

never shrunk in battle, 
Hurried quicker in their panic when they 

heard the firelocks rattle. 

Tell it not in Gath, Lord Percy, never Ascalon 
let hear it. 

That you fled from those you taunted as de- 
void of force and spirit ; 

That the blacksmith, weaver, farmer, leaving 
forging, weaving, tillage. 

Fully paid with coin of bullets base marauders 
for their pill.ige ; 



492 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



They, you said, would fly in terror, Britons 
and their bayonets shunning : 

But the loudest of the boasters proved the 
foremost in the running. 

Then round Prospect Hill they hurried, where 
we followed and assailed them ; 

They had stout and tireless muscles, or their 
limbs had surely failed them. 

Stood abashed the bitter Tories, as the women 
loudly wondered 

That a crowd of scurxy rebels chased to hold 
eleven hundred — 

Chased to hold eleven hundred, grenadiers 
both light and hea\y. 

Leading Percy, of the Border, on a chase sur- 
passing Chevy, 

Into Boston marched their forces, musket- 
barrels brightly gleaming. 

Colors flying, sabres flashing, drums were 
beating, fifes were screaming. 

Not a word about their journey ; from the 
General to the drummer. 

Did you ask about their doings, than a statue 
each was dumber; 

But the wounded in their litters, lying pallid, 
weak, and gory. 

With a language clear and certain, told the 
sanguinary story. 

'Twas a dark and bloody lesson : it was bloody 

work to teach it ; 
But when sits on high Oppression, soaring 

fire alone can reach it. 
Though but raw and rude Provincials, we 

were freemen, and contending 
For the rights our fathers gave us, and a 

countr)' worth defending ; 
And when foul invaders threaten wrong to 

hearthstone and to altar. 
Shame were on the freeman's manhood should 

he either fail or falter. 

On the day the fight that followed, neighbor 

met and talked with neighbor: 
First the few who fell they buried, then 

returned to daily labor. 
Glowed the fire within the forges, ran the 

ploughsliare down the furrow. 
Clicked the bobbin-loaded shuttle, — both our 

fight and toil were thorough ; 
If we labored in the battle, or the shop, or 

forge, or fallow. 



! Still there came an honest purpose, casting 
I round our deeds a halo. 

' The' they strove again, those minions of Ger- 
maine and North and Gower, 

I They could never make the weakest of our 
band before them cower ; 
Neither England's bribes nor soldiers, force of 

I arms nor titles splendid, 

I Could deprive of what our fathers left as rights 
to be defended. 

' And the flame from Concord spreading. 

I kindled kindred conflagrations, 

I Till the Colonies I'nited took their place 

I among the nations. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 



JACK, THE REGULAR. 
In the Bergen winter night, when the hickory 

fire is roaring. 
Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk 

before it pouring; 
When the apples pass around, and the cider 

passes after. 
And the well-worn jest is crowned by the 

hearers' hearty laughter ; 
When the cat is purring there, and the dog 

beside her dozing. 
And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire, 

old. reposing — 
Then they tell the story true to the children 

hushed and eager, 
How the two Van Valens slew, on a time, the 

Tory leaguer. 

Jack, the Regular. 

Near a hundred years ago. when the maddest 

of the Georges 
Sent his troops to scatter woe on our hills and 

in our gorges, 
Less we hated, less we feared, those he sent 

here to invade us — 
Than the neighbors with us reared who 

opposed us or betrayed us ; 
And amid those loyal knaves who rejoiced in 

our disasters. 
As became the willing slaves of the worst of 

royal masters. 
Stood John Berry, and he said that a regular 

commission 
Set him at his comrades' head ; so we called 

him. in derision. 

" Jack, the Regular." 



JACK, THE REGULAR. 



49i 



When he heard it—" Let them fling ! Let the 

traitors malce them merry 
With the fact my gracious king deigns to 

make me Captain Berr\'. 
I will scourge them for the sneer, for the 

venom that they carry ; 
I will shake their hearts with fear, as the land 

around I harry ; 
They shall find the midnight raid waking 

them from fitful slumbers ; 
They shall find the ball and blade daily thin- 
ning out their numbers ; 
Barn in ashes, castle slain, hearth on which 

there glows no ember, 
Neatless plough and horseless wain — thus the 

rebels shall remember 

Jack, the Regular." 

Well he kept his promise then, with a fierce, 

relentless daring. 
Fire to roof-trees, death to men, through the 

Bergen valleys bearing. 
In the midnight deep and dark came his ven- 
geance darker, deeper — 
At the watch-dog's sudden bark woke in 

terror every sleeper ; 
Till at length the farmers brown, wasting time 

no more on tillage. 
Swore these ruffians of the crown, fiends of 

murder, fire, and pillage, 
Should be chased by every path to the dens 

where they had banded. 
And no prayers should soften wrath when 

they caught the bloody-handed 
Jack, the Regular. 



One by one they slew his men : still the chief 

their chase evaded ; 
He had vanished from their ken, by the fiend 

or fortune aided — 
Either fled to Paulus Hoek, where the Briton 

yet commanded. 
Or his stamping-ground forsook, waiting till 

the hunt disbanded. 
So they stopped pursuit at length, and re- 
turned to toil securely — 
It was useless wasting strength on a purpose 

baffled surely ; 
But the two Van Valens swore in a patriotic 

rapture 
They would never give it o'er till they'd 

either kill or capture 

Jack, the Regular. 



Long they hunted through the wood, long 

they slept upon the hill-side ; 
In the forest sought their food, drank when 
I thirsty at the rill-side ; 

j No exposure counted hard — theirs was hunt- 
j ing border-fashion ; 

They grew bearded like the pard, and their 

chase became a passion. 
Even friends esteemed them mad, said their 

minds were out of balance. 
Mourned the cruel fate and sad fallen on the 

poor Van Valens. 
But they answered to it all, " Only wait our 

loud view-holloa 
When the prey shall to us fall ; for to death 
we mean to follow 

Jack, the Regular." 



Hunted they from Tenaulie to the shore 

where Hudson presses 
On the base of trap-rocks high ; through 

Moonachie's damp recesses; 
Down as far as Bergen Hill ; by the Ramapo 

and Drochy, 
Overprock and Pellum Kill — meadows flat 

and hill-tops rocky — 
Till at last the brothers stood where the road 

from New Barbadoes 
At the English Neighborhood slants towards 

the Palisadoes : 
Still to find the prey they sought leave no 

sign for hunter eager ; 
Followed steady, not yet caught was the 

skulking fox-like leaguer. 
Jack, the Regular. 



Who are they who yonder creep by those 

bleak rocks in the distance. 
Like the figures born in sleep, called by slum- 
ber to existence ? 
Tories, doubtless, from below, from the Hoek 

sent out for spying, 
" No ! the foremost is our foe — he so long 

before us flying. 
Now he spies us! See him start! wave his 

kerchief like a banner. 
Lay his left hand on his heart in a proud 

insulting manner. 
Well he knows that distant spot, past our ball 

— his low scorn flinging — 
If you cannot feel the shot, you shall hear the 

firelocks ringing, 

Jack, the Regular! 



n 



494 



Ah! he falls! An ambuscade! 'Twas impos- 
sible to strike him. 

Are there Tories in the glade ? Such a trick 
is very like him. 

See? his comrade by him kneels, turning him 
in terror over. 

Then takes nimbly to his heels. Have they 
really slain the rover ? 

It is worth some risk to know ; so, with fire- 
locks poised and ready, 

Up the sloping hill they go, with a quick look- 
out and steady. 

Dead! The random shot had struck, to the 
heart, and pierced the Tory — 

Vengeance seconded by luck ! Lies there cold 
and stiff and gory- 
Jack, the Regular. 

" Jack, the Regular, is dead. Honor to the 

man who slew him !" 
So the Bergen farmers said as they crowded 

round to view him. 
For the wretch that lay there slain had with 

wickedness unbending 
To their roofs brought fierj' rain, to their kins- 
folk woful ending. 
Not a mother but had prcst in a sudden pang 

of fearing 
Sobbing darlings to her breast when his name 

had smote her hearing ; 
Not a wife that did not feel terror when the 

words were uttered ; 
Not a man but chilled to steel when the hated 

sounds were muttered, — 

"Jack, the Regular." 

Bloody in his work was he, in hispurpwse iron- 
hearted ; 

Gentle pity could not be when the pitiless 
had parted ; 

So the corse in wagon thrown, with no decent 
cover o'er it — 

Jeers its funeral rites alone — into Hackensack 
they bore it. 

'Mid the clanging of the bells in the old Dutch 
church's steeple. 

And the hooting and the yells of the glad- 
dened, maddened people. 

Some they rode and some they ran by the 
wagon where it rumbled. 

Scoffing at the lifeless man, all elate that 
Death had humbled 

Jack, the Regular. 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Thus within the winter night, when the hick- 
ory fire is roaring. 
Flickering streams of ruddy light on the folk 

before it pouring; 
When the apples pass around, and the cider 

follows after. 
And the well-worn jest is crowned by the 

hearers' hearty laughter; 
When the cat is purring there, and the dog 

beside her dozing. 
And within his easy-chair sits the grandsire 

old, reposing — 
Then they tell the story true to the children 

hushed and eager. 
How the bold Van Valen slew, on a time, the 

Tory leaguer. 

Jack, the Regular. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 



AT FREDERICKSBURG.-DEC. 13, 1862. 
God send us peace, and keep red strife away ; 
But should it come, God send us men and 
steel ! 
The land is dead that dare not face the day 
When foreign danger threats the common 
weal. 

Defenders strong are they that homes defend; 

From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. 
Well blest the country that has sons to lend 

From trades of peace to learn the trade of 
war. 

Thrice blest the nation that has every son 
j A soldier, ready for the warning sound ; 
I Who marches homeward when the fight is 
j done, 

! To swing the hammer and to till the ground. 

] Call back that morning, with its lurid light, 
j When through our land the awful war-bell 
I tolled . 

( When lips were mute, and women's faces 

white 
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter 

rolled. 

Call back that morn: an instant all were 

dumb. 

As if the shot had struck the Nation's life ; 

Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the calling 

drum, [strife. 

And men streamed in to meet tne coming 



AT FREDERICKSBURG, DEC. 



13, 1862. 



They closed the ledger and they stilled the 

loom, 

The plough left rusting in the prairie farm ; 

They saw but " Union " in the gathering 

gloom ; 

The tearless women helped the men to arm; 

Brigades from town — each village sent its 
band : 

German and Irish — every race and faith ; 
There was no question then of native land. 

But, love the Flag and follow it to death. 

No need to tell their tale : through every age 
The splendid story shall be sung and said ; 

But let me draw one picture from the page, — 
For words of song embalm the hero dead. 



The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are 
planted, 
Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible brow; 
The word has been passed that the stormers 
are wanted. 
And Burnside's battalions are mustering 
now. 
The armies stand by to behold the dread 
meeting; 
The work must be done by a desperate few; 
The black-mouthed guns on the height give 
them greeting, — 
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade 
in view. 
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles 
behind them 
Are Georgia militia, — an Irish brigade — 
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind 
them 
Of all the brave record their country has 
made. 
The stormers go forward — the Federals cheer 
them ; 
They breast the smooth hillside— the black 
mouths are dumb ; 
The riflemen lie in the works till they near 
them. 
And cover the stormers as upward they 
come. 
Was ever a death-march so grand and so 
solemn.' 
At last, the dark summit with flame is en- 
lined ; 
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed 
column 



495 



The armies are hushed — there is no cause for 
cheering : 
The fall of brave men to brave men is a 
pain. 
Again come the stormers I and as they are 
nearing 
The flame -sheeted rifle - lines, reel back 
again. 
And so till full noon come the Federal 
masses — 
Flung back from the height, as the cliff 
flings a wave; 
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle 
passes. 
No wavering rank till it steps on the grave. 
Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall 
is lifted. 
The green of the hillside no longer is seen; 
The dead soldiers lie as the seaweed is drifted. 
The earthworks still held by the badges of 
green. 
Have they quailed.' is the word. No: again 
they are forming — 
Again comes a column to death and defeat? 
What is it in these who shall now do the 
storming 
That makes every Georgian spring to his 
feet .' 

" O God ! what a pity !" they cry in their 
cover. 
As rifles are readied and bayonets made 
tight; 
" 'Tis Meagher and his fellows ! their caps have 
green clover : 
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of the 
fight !" 
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag 
before them, 
With Meagher at their head, they have 
dashed at the hill ! 
Their foemen are proud of the countr)' that 
bore them ; 
But Irish in love, they are enemies still. 
Out rings the fierce word, " Let them ha\e 
it !" the rifles 
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of 
the foe : 
It is green against green, but a principle 
stifles 
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's blow. 
The column has reeled, but it is not defeated; 



That reels from the height, leaving hun- In front of the guns they re-form and 
dreds behind. attack : 



496 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



Six times they have done it, and six times 
retreated ; 
Twelve liundred they came, and two hun- 
dred go back. 
Two hundred go baclc with the chivalrous 
story ; 
The wild day is closed in the night's solemn 
shroud : 
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a 
glory 
That calls not for tears — the Green Badges 
are proud I 

Bright honor be theirs who for honor were 
fearless. 
Who charged for their flag to the grim can- 
non's mouth ; 
And honor to them who were true, though 
not tearless^ 
Who bravely that day kept the cause of the 
South. 
The quarrel is done : God avert such another : 
The lesson it brought we should evermore 
heed: 
Who loveth the flag is a man and a brother. 
No matter what birth or what race or what 
creed. 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



GOING AND COMING, 
Forward I 
" On to the front I " the order ran, 

•' On to the front the foe to meet : " 
They shouldered their muskets, boy and man. 

And marched away thro" the city street. 
Banners flying and drum-beat proud 

Marshalled them on thro' the noisy way, 
But many a heart in the waiting crowd 

Was faint and sick with its fear that day. 

Forward ! 
" On to the front ! " — 'twas a fearful call 

With Death before to beckon them on ; 
Who would be first on the field to fall .' 

Who would be left when the rest were gone } 
Was this the last time, full and free. 

To hear the pulse of the city roll. 
Before they gasped in their agony 

With the last deep throb of the parting soul .' 

Forward ! 
On to the front! From peace and life, 

From wife and child with their clinging 
hands. 



To the shock and crash of the fearful strife. 
To the unknown grave in the Southern 
lands. 
Yet firm as the beat of their martial feet. 
And strong with a freeman's strength of 
soul, 
They marched away thro" the crowded street. 
With quiver of trumpet and drum's loud 
roll. 

Forward ! 



Home I 
With silken folds of the banner torn 

In gaps.with the sunlight streaming through. 
The bayonets gleam from the muskets worn, 

.And stain and dust on the army blue ; 
Back from the battle-fields far away 

Their medals of bronze on cheek and brow. 
They came thro' the city streets to-day, — 

Our Legion of Honor we call them now. 

Home! 
When the word went down to that hell of war. 

And the fetid walls where the prisoners slept, 
God I what a shout rang near and far. 

And up to the listening heavens swept ! 
Eyes that were dr>' mid the groans of death. 

Hearts unawed by the bullet and sword. 
Grew dim and soft with the whispered breath. 

And melted in tears at the well-known 
word. 

Home! 
Many had reached it long ago. 

Not the place that our hearts had planned, — 
The fireside rest that their feet should know. 
Who came to us back from the direful 
land. — 
But a sweeter rest — which never shall cease — 
Than the deepest depth of our love could 
give. 
Where God himself is the light of Peace, 
And the ransomed soldiers of freedom live. 

Home ! 
Whether on earth or whether in heaven. 
Where lips may touch or prayers arise. 
Honor and praise to their names be given 

L'nder the sun or above the skies. 
Till the jubilant air shall rise and swell flight' 
With strong, full shouts of the heart's de- 
Welcome with clangor of cannon and bell 
The bronze-brown heroes of field and fight. 
Home ! 
MARY E. BLAKE. 



THE COLOR-BEAKEK. 



497 



THE CHARGE BY THE FORD. 

Eighty and nine with their captain, 

Rode on the enemy's track, 
Rode in the gray of the morning — 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Slow rose the mist from the river, 
Lighter each moment the way ; 

Careless and tearless and fearless, 
Galloped they on to the fray. 

Singing in tune, how the scabbard 
Loud on the stirrup-irons rang, 

Clinked as the men rose in saddle. 
Fell as they sank with a clang. 

What is it moves by the river. 

Faded and weary and weak ? 
Gray-backs — a cross on their banner — 

Yonder the foe whom they seek. 

Silence ! They see not, they hear not, 
Tarrying there by the marge ; 

Forward ! Draw sabre ! Trot ! Gallop ! 
Charge like a hurricane ! Charge ! 

Ah ! 'twas a man-trap infernal ; 

Fire like the deep pit of hell ! 
Volley on volley to meet them, 

Mixed with the gray rebels' yell. 

Ninety had ridden to battle. 

Tracing the enemy's track ; 
Ninety had ridden to battle. 

Nine of the ninety came back. 

Honor the nine of the ninety. 

Honor the heroes who came 
Scatheless from nine hundred muskets. 

Safe from the lead-bearing fiame. 

Eighty and one of the troopers 
Lie on the field of the slain — 

Lie on the red field of honor : 
Honor the nine who remain. 

Cold are the dead there, and gory. 

There where their life-blood was spilt ; 

Back come the living, each sabre 
Red from the point to the hilt. 

Give them three cheers and a tiger! 

Let the flags wave as they come ! 
Give them the blare of the trumpet! 

Give them the roll of the drum ! 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. 



REVEILLE. 
The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse ! 
The dewshinesbrightonthe chestnut boughs. 
And the sleeping mist on the river lies. 
Though the east is flushing with crimson dyes. 

Awake ! Awake ! Awake ! 

O'er field, and wood, and brake. 

With glories newly born 

Comes on the blushing morn — 
Awake ! Awake ! 

You have dreamed of your homes and friends 

all night, 
You have basked in your sweetheart's smiles 

so bright ; 
Come, part with them all for a while again, — 
Be lovers in dreams : when awake, be men ! 
Turn out ! Turn out ! Turn out ! 
You have dreamed full long, I know. 
Turn out ! Turn out ! Turn out ! 
The east is all aglow. — 

Turn out ! Turn out ! 

From every valley and hill there come 
The clamoring voices of fife and drum ; 
And out in the fresh, cool morning air 
The soldiers are swarming everywhere. 

Fall in ! Fall in ! Fall in ! 

Every man in his place. 

Fall in ! Fall in ! Fall in ! 

Each with a cheerful face. — 
Fall in ! Fall in ! 

MICHAEL O'CONNOR. 



THE COLOR-BEARER. 
"Be true, my son," an old man said, 

" Though all the world be craven ; 
Tho' death would make thy heart its bed. 

To fear be not enslaven. 
Where danger calls, be foremost in ; 

In failure last to cover ; 
With blood like thine alone we'll win. 

By sparing of it — never ! 

" Father, fear not ! " the soldier cried, 

" Though seas our two hearts sever; 
No tears but of a father's pride 

Shalt thou for me shed ever : 
But pray that God may give me strength 

To greet my death-call loudly. 
And stark upon the ground, full length, 

Front upward, I'll lie proudly." 



498 



/'OEMS OF HEROISM. 



The battle woke with eye of flame. 

And shook its smoke-locks hoary. 
And spake for all a deathless name 

That sought its embrace gory. 
Ah I many a man marched well that morn. 

Whose feet were stiff that even ; 
And many a home was left forlorn, 

And nianv a fond heart riven. 

The soldier fell upon that day. 

His countr)''s banner bearing; 
Where duty called, where danger lay. 

There was his spirit daring ; 
And as he fell the flag he kept. — 

Kept as if still he bore it; 
And clutched so tight, the foemen wept. 

As from his grasp they tore it. 

JOHN I'.'MRICK BROWN. 



RIDING TO BATTLE. 
Before the cock began to crow 

We took our morning meal, 
And by the torch's trembling glow 

We girt ourselves in steel ; 
While wintry thoughts around us fell 

Like blossom showers in June, 
For weal or woe we bade farewell 

At setting of the moon. 

As from the castle-court we rode 

And down the village street, 
The dawning day his coming showed. 

The larks rose up to greet ; 
A swell of sorrow's sprayless wave 

A sad, foreboding pang. 
Marked every stride our chargers gave. 

And every weapon's clang. 

But morn grows bright ; the scented wind 

Folds back across the hills 
The curtains of the mist untwined 

From meadows veined with rills. 
Past maid and churl in sad amaze 

We hold our stern advance. 
Till sheaves of light with greeting rays 

Illumine ever)' lance. 

How all our spirits feel the charm ! 

Hopes quicken one by one ; 
Dead joys in every heart rise warm 

Touched by the wizard sun ; 
Our leader turns with smiling face 

And vails his flowing crest 
To kiss the sign of lady's grace 

That's bound about his breast. 



No kerchief in my helmet shines. 

No silken sleeve or glove ; 
I watch our long advancing lines. 

Our banner folds above — 
Whate'er may come. I cannot care. 

I wait without a sigh ; 
My past it roundeth full and fair. 

If I this day should die I 



THE MANY NAMELESS. 
Let others sing in glowing verse the men who 

gathered laurel. 
Upon the fields where North and South oft 

met in deadly quarrel — 

The deeds which will a glory shed upon the 

page historic. 
Or gleam from dainty blue and gold, or hide 

in tomes plethoric — 

The names that in the coming years will 

second be to no man's. 
But on Fame's scroll shine for the peers of 

any Greek's or Roman's ; 

That like a clarion blast will rouse some future 

Tell or Brutus, 
And, when we lose our faith in man. stand 

forward to confute us. 

But we will sing the nameless host unknown 

in song or stor)'. 
Half hidden in the dazzling light of aggregated 

glory— 

The men whose deeds have made their chiefs 

renowned to all futurity. 
While they loom dimly through the haze of 
I luminous obscurity. — 

The common herd — the rank and file, the 

anonymous immortals 
Who ope, but never enter through. Fame's 

glorious golden portals ; 

Who mined and trenched and marched and 
toiled with ardor unabated. 

And swept across the battlefields like whirl- 
winds incarnated ; 

Whose grand impersonal renown adds to their 

countr)''s glory. 
But gives them not one line in song, and not 

one page in story. 



THE THREE KXIGHTS. 



499 



Others may sing the glorious chiefs, whose 

names will live forever, 
The tyjjes of lofty faith, brave deeds, and 

noble high endeavor — 

Who showed to a degenerate age what true 

men lay a stress on. 
Revived man's waning faith and gave the 

world a needed lesson — 

Made our utilitarian age outshine the age 

heroic. 
And softened with a Christian grace the 

virtues of the stoic — 

A good and gracious task is theirs, a noble 

and a blameless, 
Bnt while they praise the glorious few, we'll 

laud the many nameless ! 

.MARY MULLALV. 



A BORDER KNIGHT. 
Farewell to roofs that cluster brown below 
The lichen-dappled cliff ! Blow on me. blow. 
Strong gales that dash the cedar and the pine; 
No more be thought of cradled softness mine! 
For I have wandered wliere the beardless dwell. 
Found truth and falsehood, loved perhaps too 

well ; 
And now, enamored of thy golden morn, 
Land of lost youth, unreckoning mortal scorn, 
I come to thee ; henceforth my strength is 

thine. 
And, by the smile that meets me, thou art 



Fear? when I saw the forest's quivering green 

Cut by the keen blue lightning, or have been 

Inch-near the coiling snake, or felt the whirr 

Of bullets pass me, it was with a stir 

In every vein, a glory of the soul 

Worth all the joys that languid lives control. 

Flame-burdened clouds that freak the western 

skies 
With spires of shifting splendor ; stars that 



On mountains glassed in crystal, leaf and 

tree. 
Be now my kindred ; of like fates are we ! 
My love's cheek flushes when the dawn-rose 

beams 
On virgin snow, her laughter is in streams. 
I hear her footfall when the russet cones 



Drop from the spruce bough, pattering over 

stones. 
Not loving men, nor hating ; from my door 
May want go filled, to think of me no more. 

Ha ! storms are rising on the great land seas ; 
I go to face them, but my heart is peace. 

MARION MUIR. 



THE KNIGHT'S PLEDGE. 
The tedious night at length hath pass'd; 
To horse ! to horse ! we'll ride as fast 

As ever bird did fly. 
Ha ! but the morning air is chill ; 
Frau Wirthin, one last goblet fill. 

We'll drain it ere we die ! 

Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green.' 
Soon dyed in blood of mine, I ween. 

With damask rose thou'lt vie. 
The goblet here! with sword in hand 
I pledge thee first, my Fatherland, 

Oh ! blessed for thee to die I 

Again our mailed hands raise the cup: 
Freedom, to thee we drink it up. 

Low may that coward lie 
Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand. 
The freedom of our glorious Land — 

Her Freedom, ere we die ! 

Our wives — but, ah ! the glass is clear. 
The cannon thunders — grasp the spear, 

We'll pledge them in a sigh. 
Now, on the Foe like thunder crash ! 
We'll scathe them as a lightning flash. 

And conquer, though we die! 

LAUY WILDE. 



THE THREE KNIGHTS. 
Sir Tristram was a gallant knight. 

So handsome, brave and strong — 
His prowess in the battle-field 

Was told in many a song ; 
And whensoe'er he rode abroad. 

In armor glistening bright, 
A dagger hung by his left side, 

A goblet by his right ; 
And if questioned why he carried them, 

Sir Tristram answered so — 
'■ Tlie cup's for the friend who aids me, 

The dasia:er for the foe !" 



500 



Sir Hildebrandt was quite as strong. 

As handsome, and as bold, 
With many a score of vassals, 

And many a purse of gold. 
Sir Hildebrandt a splendid hall 

In his castle old did keep. 
But 'neath this hall a dungeon lay. 

Dark, loathsome, damp and deep : 
And he said, if asked by any 

To what did all this tend — 
" The one is for my enemy. 

The other for my friend !" 

Sir Gilbert he was quite as brave, 

As strong and handsome too. 
Unbeaten in the tournament. 

And equalled but by few. 
Nor steel, nor dungeon was there near 

When he sat in his hall. 
For the good right hand of friendship 

He held out to one and all ; 
And he said, if asked his reason — 

'• I make it e'er my end 
To change each enemy of mine 

Into an ardent friend !" 

ARTHUR M. FORKK.STER. 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



CAVALIER'S SWORD SONG. 
Come, kiss my gallant sword 

And sprinkle it with wine ; 
This night it won its lord 

A joy and hope divine ! 

Oft in these gloomy days 
That cloud our stormy isle. 

It earned a leader's praise. 
To-night, a woman's smile. 

Behind its point, secure. 

Oft life and honor lay — 
To-night it guarded pure 

A richer prize than they. 

Once did the steadfast blade 
A monarch's bulwark prove — 

To-night the steel was swayed 
In loyalty to love. 

With myrtle and the rose 
Entwine it for the stroke ; 

In them it brighter glows 

Than decked with bay or oak ! 

JOSEPH O'CONXOR. 



THE WRECK OFF MIZEN-HEAD. 
"O, who could lie a-snoring, 

Or who carousing be. 
While such a storm is roaring 

And raving o'er the sea .' 
A ship to death is drifting. 
Faint hands in prayer uplifting. 
With hearts in anguish failing, 
The wives and mothers, wailing, 

Look out from cliff and lea ; 
And beacon-fires arc glowing. 
And, fierce and fiercer growing, 
The sleety blasts are blowing 

O'er rock and roof and tree, 
Come out from giddy dances. 
And songs and vain romances, 
And idle dreams and trances, 

And man the boat with me." 

So Guy the ever daring. 

One fierce September night. 
While beacon-fires were flaring 

Along the Mizen's height, — 
As I, from pastimes shrinking. 
Of Rose's scorn was thinking,^ 
Cried, all at once upspringing 
'Mid dance and mirth and singing 

And games and laughters light; 
And Hugh the eager-hearted, 
Out to the portal darted. 
And Wolfe and Wilfred started 

.And Donald. Ralph, and I ; 
And. prayers and sweet imploring 
From maiden lips ignoring, 
With spirits wildly soaring 

We faced the seas and sky. 

As down the beach descending 

We drave the quivering boat, 
A gleam of moonlight rending 

The darkness, showed afloat 
The laboring vessel, shattered. 
With tackle rent and tattered, 
Amid the tempest heaving. 
Her course to ruin cleaving ; 

Then fast the turf we smote. 
And, boldly toward her steering. 
Still by our courage cheering. 
The deadly breakers clearing. 

We strained across the tide : 
And on. 'mid lightnings gleaming- 
The winds about us screaming. 
The rain in rivers streaming. 

We struggled to her side. 



THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 50I 


The vessel still to seaward 


And when the last was landed. 


Came drifting down the bay, 


And homeward faint and cold 


And, steering in to leeward 


We turned, how, eager-handed. 


In surf and rain and spray, 


(Guy leading as of old). 


Athwart her sides we floated • 


High on their shoulders proudly 


And there on deck we noted. 


They set me, cheering loudly. 


With faces outward gazing. 


And bore me on declaring 


Their piteous hands upraising, 


The triumph of my daring ;- 


As all forlorn they lay. 


And how my love I told 


A helpless band together 


That eve amid the gloaming 


Like birds in wintry weather 


To Rose as we were roaming 


With feather pressed to feather 


Where Aughrim stream was foaming. 


Close huddled from the blast ; 


And how she smiled and sighed. 


A moment weirdly flashing. 


And, 'mid the sunset's splendor. 


We saw them, 'mid the lashing 


Laying her white hand slender. 


Of billows wildly dashing 


In mine in love's surrender. 


O'er bulwark, deck and mast. 


My prayer no more denied. 




GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG 


Four times we all but touched her. 




Foui times adrift were flung. 




The fifth I sprang and clutched her. 


THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 


And leech-like there I clung; 


" Vender's the cleft in the Mountain, their 


And thus to Guy's enclasping. 


'Glen of the Horse,' 


With one arm tightly grasping. 


Lonely, with bulwarks of granite to left and 

to right. 
Lifted above its great boulders, its bracken 

and gorse 


Those famished forms I lowered, 


Till, well-nigh overpowered, 


I trembled where I hung. 


Then Guy and Wilfred, straining. 


Hiding the rillet that gurgles in giddy delight. 


New strength from victory gaining 
Drew down the last remaining. 


Hurrying down to the valley of gray Glenma- 
lure. 


Till all were safely stowed ; 


What is the legend that haunts it, of wizard 

or sprite. 
Mortal or devil or angel or dragon impure .' 


And shoreward with our treasure. 


All pain transformed to pleasure, 


With oars in mirthful measure 




At break of dawn we rowed. 


" This. I have reason to know it, — none 




living so well. 


Ay, well do I remember, 


I am a part of the story that blackens the glen. 


The morning stormy bright 


Ever the name of it rings in mine ear like a 


That dawn of wild September, 


knell ; [men. 


As through the breakers white 


Ever its memory darkens my path among 


We rowed the brave boat laden 




With man and babe and maiden, 


•• It was an evening in summer in red ' Ninety- 


While o'er the sandy spaces, 


eight,' 


The dawn-beams on their faces. 


When, as we climbed from the Valley, my 


Looked out with straining sight 


troopers and I, 


The crowd that there had waited. 


Up by the mule-path, and drew in the breezes. 


Each heart with anguish freighted. 


elate, 


As slow the storm abated 


Reaching the Pass of Imahl and the moor- 


Along the Brittas strand ; 


lands on high. 


And how they cheered us, rending 


Suddenly rose from a guUey the torrents had 


The wind, as slow ascending. 


torn 


Beneath our burdens bending. 


Wide in the heather, a horseman in Rebel's 


We waded to the land. 


array. 



POEMS OF HEROISM. 



50J 

Leapt with his steed from the cover he lay in 

forlorn. 
Sprang like a hare when it starts at a loud 

• harkaway !' 
Turned for a moment to scan us, then, striking 

his spurs, 
Deep in the sides of his chestnut, away to the 

height. 
Out toward the brown Lugnaquilla, through 

bracken and furze, 
Rode for his life o'er the moors in the face of 

the night. 

" ' Follow !' I shouted. ' That horseman, by 

Heaven, is a prize ! 
Thoroughbred chestnut he rides, and he rides 

like a king. 
Follow him, men, — follow me ; for as fast as 

he flies. 
Surely my bay is a bird of as rapid a wing. 



" Up and then out o'er the mountain I leaped 

as he led. 
Looked not behind or to left or to right as I 

flew. 
Watching the flanks of his steed, and the 

plumes o'er his head 
Glancing away toward the moon as she rose 

in the blue. 
Now on the sward and the heather, and now 

at a dash 
Clearing a torrent, or plunging hock-deep in 

the peat. 
Now in the wet mountain mosses with splash 

upon splash. 
Now on the gorse and the gravel with gallop- 
ing feet. 
Struggling, we rode such a ride as a madman 

might dare. 
Mad.' 1 was mad that 1 followed, not he that 

he fled ; 
Flying from death was my quarrj'. made 

strong with despair : 
Wild with the joy of the chase was my soul 

as I sped. 

'"Where will he lead me.' I thought, 'to what 

pit or what pool ? — 
Let him lead on to hell-gates. I will follow 

him still — 
Now that I'm well on his track, shall 1 turn 

like a fool ? 
Never a man of my name had a tameable will.' 
Proud of its old Norman blood was the heart 

that I bore. 



Proud of my race that had battled six cen- 
turies through. 

Beating the kern from the land we had con- 
quered of yore. — 

What ! shall the Keltic knave baffle me.' Slay, 
as we slew. 

Slay me he may if he can, but not force me 
to yield. 

On, little mare, to the down ; never livelier 
chase ; 

On, gallant bay ; ever first thou hast been in 
the field. 

First over water and wall and the first in the 
race; 

On till we run him to earth or he runs us to 
death I ' 

" So to my hunter I murmured. She heard 

me and sprang 
Up from the hollow we strove in, and over 

the heath 
Bounded with pride ever swifter, and audible 

clang. 
Striking the masses of granite that broke from 

the clod ; 
Forward still fleeter, and close at the heels of 

our prey : 
Nearer and nearer with thunder of hoofs on 

the sod. 
Scattering the russet-brown peat-dust about 

us like spray. 

•■ Foam from my bay with the foam of his 
chestnut flew by.— 

'Yield, in the King's name!' my lips all but 
muttered, so nigh 

Snorted the nose of my horse to the knave's 
saddle-bow — 

When all at once from the holster his pistol 
he snatched. 

Turned, and let fly at my forehead, but, aim- 
ing too low. 

Close by my neck whizzed his bullet — and 
left me unscratched. 

■■ Loud then I laughed at the rebel, as anger 
and pain 

Flashed in the gleam of his teeth, as he gal- 
loped away. 

Spurring more fiercely the sides of his chest- 
nut. Again 

Out of my reach he had swept, and 1 urged 
on my bay. 



THE GLEN OF THE HORSE. 



503 



" Then in a moment he doubled. With face 

to the vale. 
Downward he swerved with a start as if 

driven with a goad, 
Headlong he galloped, I after him, hard on 

the trail — 
Ay, but I knew what he saw not, that, right 

in his road. 
Dim in the twilight, yon precipice, sudden 

and sheer. 
Broke o'er the glen, with Death staring up 

from the gap ! 
• Let him go forward ' (I laughed) ' in his 

frantic career ; 
Out on the verge of the crags he is caught in 

a trap ; 
There he must rein in his steed, he must 

turn on his track ; 
There he must lie in my grip, or for liberty 

fight,' 
Then for the first time I thought of my men 

and looked back ; 
Saw them behind in the moor coming on 

with the night. 

" ' If he resists now,' I said, ' we shall fight all 

alone ; 
Dexterous, doubtless he'll prove, and of sinew 

and bone 
Tough, quick of eye and of wrist, by no dan- 
ger dismayed ; 
Short will the duel be, surely, with pistol or 

blade- 
Nay, but he's nearing the verge. . , . Will he 

fail to discern 
The abyss? Will he rein not his steed till it 

yawns at his feet.'' 
Nearer and neare •. ' The nearer the sharper 

the turn ; 
Now in a trice he recoils at the chasm, and 

we meet.' 

" Close in his wake I was bounding. 'Great 

God, is he blind.'' 
Right in his way the great precipice plunged 

like a wall. 



See the wild phookah of Erin that haunts the 

hill-sides. 
Galloping wildly forever, a phantom of doom ? ' 

" Up from my heart came a cry with a catching 

of breath — 
' Stay ! — though I love not thy cause, I would 

save if I might 
Foe more detested than thou from so ghastly 

a death,'— 
■Vainly I cried ; Man and horse like a flash 

from my sight. 
Out o'er the edge of the crag with a wild leap 

in air 
Sprang, — and a sickness came o'er me, as, 

tightening the rein. 
Blankly I stared at the valley, and murmured 

a prayer 
For the wretch I had hunted to death, and 

had hunted in vain. 

" Mournfully, silently, down from the summit 
I crept. 

Round by the slopes of the mountain, as over 
me sailed. 

Dull in the mist, the faint moon, and the valley- 
wind swept 

Coldly my forehead, and round me the wild 
plover wailed. 

" Huddled beside his dead charger, bruised, 

broken and dead. 
There 'mid the green beds of bracken, his 

face to the sky. 
Pale with death's pallor, more pale for the 

moon overhead. 
There I beheld in his blood the poor fugitive 

lie. 

" Laying a pitying hand on the heart that was 

still. 
Gently a picture I drew from the bosom laid 

bare. 
Lifted it up in the moon from the dusk of 

the hill. 



Out there in front there was naught but the Gazed for a moment, and started. — • So young 



gulf and the wind ! 



and I 



Giddy and hoirible seemed it, — a sight to | Florence. — thy face on his bosom. Alas! was 



appal ! 




the youth, 


' What, has he lost his command of the 


)rute 


Florence, thy lover, thine. Cousin, — thine, 


that he strides? 




slain, and through me?' 


Nay. do I see but a spectre that flies i 


nthe 


Then all at once on my spirit out broke the 


gloom. 




whole truth. 



,Q^ POEMS OF HEROISM. 

" Bending above the dead man once again, I Stretch I my hands to the worlds by Thy 

beheld wisdom sustained. 

Dimly the face of the friend 1 had known long Here, face to face with the awe of Thy being 

ago. — revealed. 

Randal, the bold young enthusiast, madly im- Here, with the gulf of deep horror around me 

pelled. rent wide. 

Breaking away from his kindred, to strike a Kneeling. I cry to thee. God, who with pur- 
wild blow pose concealed 
Thus for the race that his fathers had swayed Mad'st me. and light in my need to Thy foot- 

with the sword — steps denied. 

Randal, the elegant talker, the graceful, the 

brave, " ' Thou who hast girdled our lives with the 

Randal, the chivalrous ever in act and in | river of Death, 

word, I Save us, O God. from this horror of horrors, 

Randal, poor Florence's chosen, brought thus that men 

to his grave! Die by the hands of their brothers! O, deep 

in its sheath 
■• Down on my knees in the heather I knelt at q^^ ^^^^ g^-ord that divideth us; back to 

his side, their den 

Felt all the rapture of living fade out in eclipse, Drive thou the furies that rend us; expunge 
Claspt the dead hand that in life had been , ^„(j ei^ace, 

proudly denied. Father, the frenzies that shatter our Isle in 
Bent o'er his face in loud sobbing, and kissed their sway. 

the cold lips. | Vengeance, the f)assions of p)arty, the rancors 

Then, as men hunt for excuses to justify q( race. 

wo"g Angers that madden and darken, and hates 

Even when conscience is sorest, and deepest i ^^^^ betray!" 

their guilt. 
Idly I sang to my conscience the hypocrite's ., Long o'er the dead in mine agony cried I to 

song.- I God. 

' Surely m doing my ,////»' this blood 1 have jhere by the body still kneeling they found 



spilt. 



" ' Duty. ay. Duty 1 what crimes have been 

wrought in thy name ! 
Was It my passion for Duty alone that in- 

gpirgj 5 '• Never that evening of blood shall be swept 

How much of prejudice, hatred, a hunger for from "'X s'ght 

(^f^g Never that chase of the brave human heart in 

How much the thirst for mere blood by the ^he gloom ; 

brute's heart desired? Never the vision in front of the beautiful 



me that night; 
There with our sword-blades we hewed out 
his grave in the sod. — 



Randal, my friend of old days, if thy spirit 

could bend 
Out of the cold azure heaven and see me this 

hour, 
Could'st thou have love to forgive the deep 

wrong of thy friend. 
Done not in virtue, but ignorance ? — O Sovran 

Power, 
God of the worlds, who hast made us. and 

knowest full well 
Us. and the forces that fret us "hyself hast 

ordained. 
Here in thy lonely waste places of mountain 

and dell. 



form. 
Swaying in strong airy motions away to its 

doom; 
Neverthe face in the bracken, the bosom still 

warm 
Bearing that picture, — ah God ! — o'er the 

heart that was still : 
Never the gloom of the Vale in the silent 

night-air. 
As again, with face bent o'er the saddle, I 

climbed the dark hill. 
Sick with the anguish of Cain in my lonely 

despair! " 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 



PART IX, 

POEMS OF LABOR. 



There is no remedy for time misspent, 
No healing for the waste of idleness, 
Whose very languor is a punishment 
Heavier than active souls can feel or guess. 
O hours of indolence and discontent. 
Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not less 
Because I know this span of life was lent 
For lofty duties, not for selfishness ; — 
Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams, 
But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind, 
Life and its choicest facuUies were given, 
Man should be ever better than he seems, 
And shape his acts, and discipHne his mind. 
To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven. 

AUBREY DE VERE. 



POEMS OF LABOR, 



SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 
I found a fellow-worker when I thought I 

toiled alone : 
My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and 

his was hewing stone ; 
I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the 

common street, 
And it seemed his toil was great and hard, 

while mine was great and sweet. 

I said, O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker 
too. 

The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how 
is it with you .' 

For while I toil great tears of joy will some- 
times fill my eyes. 

And when I form my perfect work it lives and 
never dies. 

I carve the marble of pure thought until the 

thought takes form. 
Until it gleams before my soul and makes the 

world grow warm ; 
Until there comes the glorious voice and words 

that seem divine. 
And the music reaches all men's hearts and 

draws them into mine. 

And yet for days it seems my heart shall 

blossom never more, 
And the burden of my loneliness lies on me 

very sore : 
Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave 

base human ways. 
How canst thou bear the years till death, made 

of such thankless days.' 



Then he replied : Ere sunrise, when the pale 

lips of the day 
Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth 

of the first ray, 
A great thought rose within me, how, while 

men asleep had lain. 
The thousand labors of the world had grown 

up once again. 

The sun grew on the world, and on my soul 

the thought grew too, 
A great appalling sun, to light my soul the 

long day through. 
I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, 

then began 
With man's gigantic strength to do the labor 

of one man. 

I went forth hastily, and lo ! I met a hundred 

men. 
The worker with the chisel and the worker 

with the pen — 
The restless toilers after good, who sow and 

never reap. 
And one who maketh music for their souls 

that may not sleep. 



Each passed me with a dauntless look, and 

my undaunted eyes 
Were almost softened as they passed with tears 

that strove to rise 
At sight of all those labors, and because that 

every one. 
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little 

were undone. 



5o8 



POEMS OF LABOK. 



They passed nic, having faith in me, and in 

our several ways 
Together we began to-day as we had other 

days : 
I felt their mighty hands at work, and as tlic 

day wore through. 
Perhaps they felt that even I was helping 

somewhat too. 

Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they 

lifted mightily 
The burden once more laid upon the world 

so hcavilj', 
That while they nobly held it as each man 

can do and bear. 
It did not wholly fall my side as though no 

man were there. 

And so we toil together many a day from 

morn till night. 
I in thelowerdepthsof life, they on the lovely 

height ; 
For though the common stones are mine. 

and they have lofty cares, 
Their work begins where this leaves off, and 

mine is part of theirs. 

And 'tis not wholly mine or theirs I think of 

through the day, 
But the great eternal thing we make together, 

I and they ; 
For in the sunset I behold a city that Man 

owns. 
Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of 

my common stones. 

Then noonward. as the task grows light, with 

all the labor done. 
The single thought of all the day becomes a 

joyous one ; 
For rising in my heart at last, where it hath 

lain so long. 
It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows 

almost a song. 

But when the evening comes, indeed, the 

words have taken wing, 
The thought sings in me still, but 1 am all 

too tired to sing: , 

Therefore, O you, my friend, who ser\'e the 

world with minstrelsy. 
Among our fellow-workers' songs, make that I 

one song for me. 

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. | 



WORK-SONG. 
Who murmurs that his heart is sick 

With toil from day to day. 
That brows are wrinkled ere their time. 

.And locks of youth are gray.' 
'Twas not in such a craven mood 

Our fathers won the lands. 
But by the might of toiling brain, 
The stroke of resolute hands ; 
For hard work is strength, boy ; 

And, whether in house or field, 
Ho I for the men that mind and arm 
In righteous labor wield I 



If trouble clings about thy path, 

Ere yet thy days are old ; 
If dear friends sink in death, and leave 

Thy world all void and cold ; 
Wilt thou lie down in aimless woe 

And waste thy life away? 
Nay. grieving's but a sluggish game 

That coward spirits play ; 

But hard work is strength, boy. 
And when the stout heart bleeds, 

There's ne'er a balm that heals it 
Like the doing of great deeds. 

Ah !— lovest thou a bonnie lass? 

Then, scorn to dream and sigh, 
For true love's fruits are noble acts. 

And fruitless love must die; 
And if thy fervency be spurned. 

Go, set to work again. — 
Twill help to quench the burning woe. 

To ease the bitter pain ; 

For hard work is strength, boy, 
Whatever the fiend may say. 

And after storm and cloud and rain 
Comes up the cheerier day. 

And is a true, true wife thine own.' — 

Let never a murmur rise 
To draw one doubt across her brow. 

Or a tear into her eyes; 
And if thy children round her knees 

Look up and cry for bread, 
O kiss their fears away, and turn 

And work with hand and head ; 

For hard work is strength, boy. 
And with the setting sun. 

Come dearer peace and sweeter rest 
The more of it that's done. 



FOR THE PEOPLE. 



509 



And if thou have nor child, nor wife, 

Nor bosom friend, what then ? 
Toil on with might thro' day, thro' night, 

To help thy fellow men ; 
And though thou earn but little thanks. 

Forbear to fret and pine ; 
There's One that drank of deadlier woes. 

And holds thee dear for thine ; 

And hard work is strength, boy, 
And love is the end of life, — 

Music that fires the blood of the brave 
In the midst of battle and strife. 

And when thy power is dead and gone. 

Lay down thy head to rest. 
And the great God will stretch His hands. 

And draw thee to His breast: 
Nay, talk no more of sickening heart. 

Gray hairs or wrinkled brow. 
Up, up, and gird thy loins for toil: 

There's good to do enow ; 

And hard work is strength, boy, 
And life's a rapture still 

That loses not its joj'ousness 
To the men of unwavering will. 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 



FOR THE PEOPLE. 
We are the hewers and delvers who toil for 

another's gain. 
The common clods and the rabble, stunted of 

brow and brain. 
What do we want, the gleaners, of the harvest 

we have reaped .' 
What do we want, the neuters, of the honey 

we have heaped .' 

We want the drones to be driven away from 

our golden hoard ; 
We want to share in the harvest ; we want to 

sit at the bo^rd ; 
We want what sword or suffrage has never 

yet won for man, — 
The fruits of his toil, God-promised, when the 

curse of toil began. 

Ye have tried the sword and sceptre, the cross 
and the sacred word, 

In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet 
here of the Lord. 

Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they fruit- 
less, all our prayers? 

Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been 
oversowed with tares ? 



What gain is it to the people that a God laid 

down his life. 
If, twenty centuries after, his world be a world 

of strife ? 
If the serried ranks be facing each other with 

ruthless eyes 
And steel in their hands, what profits a 

Saviour's sacrifice ? 

Ye have tried and failed to rule us; in vain to 

direct have tried ; 
Not wholly the fault of the ruler ; not utterly 

blind the guide ; 
Mayhap there needs not a ruler ; mayhap we 

can find the way. 
At least ye have ruled to ruin ; at least ye 

have led astray. 

What matter if king or consul or president 

holds the rein. 
If crime and poverty ever be links in the 

bondsman's chain? 
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty 

packed his load. 
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp 

and ready goad ? 

There's a serf whose chains are of paper; 

there's a king with a parchment crown ; 
There are robber knights and brigands in 

factory, field and town. 
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage 

and rent ; 
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh- 

and-blood per cent. 

The seamstress bends to her labor all night in 

a narrow room ; 
The child, defrauded of childhood, tip-toes all 

day at the loom ; 
The soul must starve ; for the body can barely 

on husks be fed ; 
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the 

price of bread. 

Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and 

robbed him of learning's light; 
But his sluggish brain is moving; his sinews 

have all their might. 
Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, 

pride and caste ! 
The Giant is blind, and thinking, and his locks 

are growing fast. 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



5 JO 



POEMS OF LABOR. 



THE BETTER DAY. 
Worn and wearj' workers— ho! 

Toil is pain, if so you say ; 
But to those who singing go 

To their labors day by day. 
Toil is duty, growth and gain — 
Never wasted, never vain. 
Worker by the hot highway. 
In the blinding blaze of day; — 
Delver in the deep, dark mine. 
Where no rays of sunlight shine;— 
Patient pent-up man-machine. 
At the loom and shuttle seen, 
Weaving in with nicest art 
Throbbings of your own poor heart. 
Til! the subtle textures seem 
With your ver)' life to gleam ; — 
Stitcher by the cradle's side. 
Where thy fondest hopes abide. 
Working with a heart of might 
All the day and half the night. 
Sometimes till the east grows red 
With the dawning, for thy bread, 
Though thou art of feeble limb, 
And thine eyes are pained and dim 
Sending oflf with ever>' piece 
Which thy weary hands release 
Portions of thy life wrought in 
With the garment white and thin. 
Hard the task, but work away : 
Yet shall dawn the Better Day. 

Faith is might, my brothers. Ho! 

Weary workers everj-where. 
For the New Age. rounding to 

Like a planet, now prepare : 
Not by revel, not by rust. 
Not by scorning yet your crust. — 
Not by idle dreams of wealth 
Won by luck, or got by stealth, 
Not by flattering hopes of case : 
Better, braver things than these, 
As its first beams on you fall. 
Asks the New Age of you all. 
Workers, you are brothers born- 
Treat the title not with scorn — 
Workers ! born or where or when. 
Better — ye are fellow-men I 
Workers I (so 'tis felt at length) — 
You have got the gift of strength ; 
Yours the gift of numbers, too- 
Then what } To yourselves be true.' 
Work with will, and work away. 
Doubting not the Better Day! 



Each to each a brother 1>< 
Steadfast in your sympath) . 
All to all be fellow-men — 
You will lack but little then. 
■' We were made for Labor ?" True ; 
So was Labor made for you. 
You are Labor's — Labor yours ; 
This your common weal secures. 
Labor has been Money's long. 
And in this has been the wrong ; 
Let it hence be yours, and you 
Labor's. Then, with duty due. 
And with muscles well combined 
With your energies of mind. 
Workers, ye shall masters be 
In the halls of Industry ! 
Heart and hope I The night with- 
drawn. 
How the coming morn shall dawn I 
Work, my brothers — work away 
Doubting not the Better Day ! 

Wll.LlA.M I>. GALLAGHER. 



THE SOVEREIGN PEOPLE, 
The men who moil in forge and shop, and the 

men who till the soil. 
Have sworn to enforce that highest law — that 
they shall eat who toil ! 
The rule of the feudal despot's dead 
In the world's new onward swing; 
The rule of the People must come instead. 
With the Sovereign People King! 
Pampered idlers ! list to the words of the new 

evangel's laws — 
That man has no right to live who can't for 
living show ample cause! 
Away with the past. 
With its kings and caste — 
The People must be supreme ; 
Muscle and brain 
Henceforth must reign — 
Hurra for the new regime ! 

Look, ye lords, with affrighted eyes, at the 

toilers' stern array ; 
And hark to the hurricane voice of Change, 
proclaiming the world's new day ! 
As rotten boughs you go down in the gale 

With the fungus of feudal years; 
For the future will have but the tree that's 
hale 
Where the sturdy bud appears ! 



THE POTATO DIGGER- S SONG. 



'Tis nature's law that the worthless drift be 

swept away by the tide ; 
King, prince and lord are a worthless load, 
and must by that law abide ! 
No parliament act 
Can alter a fact, 
Or the march of mankind stay ; 
It shrivels to dust 
At the People's inmt — 
Hurra for the People's Day ! 



What fools to think that a parchment scroll 

can give and take at will 
What men through ages have fought to win, 
or the throbbings of Liberty still ! 
Has a drop of ink on a flimsy scroll 
More power than a people's blood? 
Can a knot of ribbon resist the roll 
Of Freedom's surging flood? 
Ah, this is the world's renewal age, and the 

earth is young again. 
For it feels the shock of Liberty that thrills 
through the frames of men ! 
Be the despot lord 
But a thing abhorr'd. 
And shivered his blood-built tower : 
Merit's the guage 
In the coming age- 
Hurra for the People's power ! 



The earth was made, with the fruits thereof, 

for man in his free career! 
Though tyrants have mocked at that primal 
law, its day of fulfillment's here \ 
Their thrones were built upon human 
hearts ! 
Their feet crushed the necks of men ; 
But their day is past and their power de- 
parts 
To never curse earth again ! 
In the light of knowledge men read their 
rights, and knowledge gives nerve 
to act — 
To act with a free and intrepid soul, to turn 
a hope to fact ! 
Crowned despots quake ! 
The world's awake 
In this brighter and broader day ; 
The worker must rule 
In the world's new school — 
Hurra for the People's sway! 

PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY. 



THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG. 
Come, Connal, actishla, turn the clay. 

And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! 
For we must toil this autumn day, 

With heaven's help, till the rise of the moon. 
Our corn is stacked, the hay secure. 

Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains. 
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure. 

Before the coming November rains. 
The peasant's mine is his harvest still; 
So now, my lads, let's work with a will ; — 
Work hand and foot, 
Work spade and hand 
Through the crumbly mould. 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold of Ireland. 

Och, I wish that Maurice and Mary dear 

Were singing beside us this soft day! 
Of course they're far better off than here. 

But whether they're happier who can say ? 
I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night 
With them on the far Australian shore ;— 
Well, Heaven be about them with visions 
bright. 
And send them childer and gold galore. 
With us there's many a mouth to fill. 
And so. my boy, let's work with a will ; — 
Work hand and foot. 
Work spade and hand 

Thro' the brown, dry mould. 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold of Ireland. 

.'^h, Paddy O'Reardon, you thundering Turk, 

Is it coortin' you are in the blessed noon ? 

Come over here, Katty. and mind your work. 

Or I'll see if your mother can't change you.- 

tune. 

Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mick, 

-Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ; — 

But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic. 

Defer your proposal till after Lent ; 
And as love on this island lives mostly still 
On potatoes — dig, boy, dig with a will ; — 
Work hand and foot. 
Work spade and hand. 
Through the harvest moulo 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold of Ireland 



POEMS OF LABOR. 



Down the bridle-road the neighbors ride. 
Through the light ash-shade by the wheaten 
sheaves ; 
And the childer sing on the mounuin side, 
In the sweet blue smoke of the burning 
leaves, 
As the great sun sets, in glory furled, [face — 
Faith, it's grand to think as I watch his 
If he never sets on the English World, 
He never, lad, sets on the Irish Race. 
In the West, in the South, New Irelands still 
Grow up in his light — come, work with a will ; — 
Work hand and foot. 
Work sf>ade and hand. 
Through the native mould ; 
The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root 
Is the real gold of Ireland ! 

But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn. 

Comes up from the sea, in the deep blue 
It scarcely seems a day since morn ; [calm ; 
Well— the heel of the evening to you, mam ! 
God bless the moon ! for many a night. 
As I restless lay on a troubled bed — 
When rent was due — her quieting light 

Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. ' 

But see — the baskets remain to fill ! j 

Come, girls, be alive — boys, dig with a will ; — 

Work hand and foot, 1 

Work spade and hand. 

Through the moonlit mould ; , 

The blessed fruit 
That grows at the root. 
Is the real gold of Ireland ! 
THO.MAS C. IRWIN. 



Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage. 
All from dust receive their birth. 

Barn and mill and wine-vat's treasures. 

Earthly goods for earthly lives. 
These are nature's ancient pleasures. 

These her child from her derives. 
What the dream but vain rebelling. 

If from earth we sought to flee.' 
'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 

'Tis from it the skies we see. 

Wind and frost, and hour and season. 

Land and water, sun and shade. 
Work with these as bids thy reason. 

For they work thy toil to aid. 
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 

Man himself is all a seed ; 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness. 

Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 

JOHN STERI.IM 



THE HUSBANDMAN. 
Earth, of man the bounteous mother. 

Feeds him still with corn and wine; 
He who best would aid a brother. 

Shares with him these gifts divine. 
Many a jxjwer within her bosom 

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom. 

Golden ear and clustered wreath. 

These to swell with strength and beauty, 

Is the royal task of man ; 
Man's a king, his throne is duty. 

Since his work on earth began. 
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage. 

These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 
Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis 

at a white heat now : 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — 

tho' on the forge's brow 
The little flames still fitfully play through the 

sable mound, 
.\i\A fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 

ranking round. 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands 

only bare — 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work 

the windlass there. 
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the 

black mound heaves below. 
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out 

at every throe : 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — O, Vulcan, 

what a glow ! 
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the 

high sun shines not so! 

The high sun sees not on the earth such fier>' 

fearful show ; 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the 

ruddy lurid row 
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men 

before the foe, 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the 

sailing monster, slow [grow. 

Sinks on the anvil : — all about the faces fiery 




a^i^ 



^^^^j^^'^-^^^-^ 



THE FORGING OF THE AXCHOK. 



513 



far from love and home ; 
hissing And sobbing sweethearts, in a row. wail o'er 
the ocean's foam. 



■• Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out — leap out ; " When, weighing slow, at eve they go, — far, 
bang, bang tlie sledges go 

Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are 
high and low — 

A hailing fount of fire is struck at everj' 
squashing blow. 

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rat- 
tling cinders strow 

The ground around : at every bound the 
sweltering fountains flow, 

.And thick and loud the swinking crowd at i 
every stroke pant, " ho 



Leap out, leap out. my masters ; leap out and 

lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor— a bower thick 

and 



In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down 

at last ; 
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from 

cat was cast. 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou 

hadst life like me. 
What pleasure would thy toils reward beneath 

the deep green sea ! 
O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such 

sights as thou ? 
The hoary monster's palaces 1 Methinks what 

joy 'twere now 



For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow. I "^^ S° P'"'"^ plunging down amid the 
J bode assembly of the whales. 

And I see the good ship riding, all in a peril- ^"^ ^^^' ^^^ churned sea round me boil 
ous road— , beneath their scourging tails ! 

The low reef roaring on her lee-the roll of Then deep in tangled woods to fight the fierce 

ocean pour'd. 
From stem to stern, sea after 



the main- 
mast by the board ; 
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the 
stove at the chains I 



sea unicorn, 
" ! And send him foiled and bellowing back, for 
all his ivory horn I 
To leave the subtle sword-fish of bony blade 
forlorn ; 



But courage still, brave mariners-the bower ^nd for the ghastly grinning shark, to leave 



yet remams. 



his jaws to scorn ; 



And notaninchto flinch hedeigns.save when Xo leap down on the kraken's back, where 



ye pitch sky high ; 



mid Norwegian isles 



Then moves his head, as tho' he said. " Fear He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shal- 



nothing — here am I 

Swing in your strokes in order. let foot and 

hand keep time ; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any 

steeple's chime. 
But while you sling your sledges, sing — and 

let the burden be. 
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal crafts- 



Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull 

their rustling red : 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work 

will soon "oe sped. 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose 



lowed miles ; 

'Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, ofi 
he rolls ; 

Meanwhile to swing a-bufifeting the far aston- 
ished shoals 

Of his black browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, 
in a cove, 

Shell-strown. and consecrate of old to some 
Undine's love. 

To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or. hard 
by icy lands. 

To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon ceru- 
lean sands. 



rich array. 



sport can equal thine.' 



a hammock at the roaring bows, on an The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that 



oozy couch of clay ; 



tugs thy cable 



Our anchor soon must change the lay of And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory 



merrj' craftsmen here. 



day by day. 



For the yo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and Through sable sea and breaker while, the 



the singing seaman's cheer; 



giant game to play- 



/'OEMS OF LABOK. 



5»4 



But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the 

name I gave — 
A fisher's joy is to destroy— thine office is to 

save. 
O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou 

but understand 
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who 

that dripping band. 
Slow swaying on the heaving wave, that round 

about thee bend. 
With sound like breakers in a dream blessing 

their ancient friend — 
O. couldst thou know what heroes glide with 

larger steps round thee. 
Thine iron side would swell with pride ; 

thou'dst leap within the sea! 

(live honor to their memories who left the 

pleasant strand. 
To shed their blood so freely for the love of 

Fatherland — 
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 

churchyard grave. 
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing 

wave ; 
O, though our anchor may not be all I have 

fondly sung. 
Honor him for their memory whose bones he 

goes among ! 

•SAMUKL FERGUSON. 



THE IRISH REAPERS' SONG. 

A glorious morning, hot and still: 

There's not a cloud, and scarce a sound. 

Except where yonder from the mound 

Drums the wheel of the white-washed mill. 

How strong the great sun showers his rays 

Upon this corn they've turned to gold ! 
If it could hear us sing its praise 
As once the people did of old. 
Its ears would better like the tune — 

Chiefly if young Rose yonder sung — 
Than any breeze of morn or noon 

That ever moved its stems among ; 
Tor there's no music like the voice 
Of a colleen that's glad, my boys ; 
And we have reason just to drop 
Upon our knees for this fine crop. 
Bend in the heat. 
Close to the feet 
Cut down the wheat 
We sowed in spring. 



And lay it bound 
Light on the ground. 
While lads around 
And colleens sing! 

Hurrah ! my friends, you've done your best ; 
Half the field cut with half the day! 
Let us be gay ; all work is play 
When it brings profit. Now for a rest, 
.\nd drink beside the streamlet blue. 
How pleasantly the thrushes sing : 
And see, from town the sparrows, too. 
Have come to join our har\estinj; : 
How close the whistling swallows fly — 

Not one of them that has not come 
I'p from the far hot southern sky. 

Perhaps from Greece or holy Rome : 
If from America they flew, 
I'd like them more, 'twixt me and you : 
For they'd have seen our friends, ochone I 
Well, the sun sees them, and the moon : 
But, up! and beat. 
My boys, complete, 
This field of wheat 
We sowed in spring; 
^ And lay it bound 

Light on the ground 
While lads around 
And colleens sing! 

, Yon sun which sinks the hills behind 

A finer han-est never saw: 
I The wheat will feed us and the straw 
Will shield us from the winter's wind. 
And now, the last thrush leaves the tree. 

Our cottage turf smoke rises blue 
Up to the sickle moon, as we 

Plod homeward in the heavy dew. 
No other Race can work so much 
On little, as we can, they say ; 
I And, would we had to reap as rich 
A field all night, as this to-day. 
But now for a dance, and then to rest 

After a taste of true poteen. 
To drink a health to friends in the West, 
And to old Ireland's Isle of green! 
For all the heat. 
Our work was sweet ; 
Now with our feet 

The floor shall ring : 
.^nd friend with friend 
Their songs shall blend. 
To happy end 
Our harvesting ! 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



THE TEN A NT- A T- WILL. 



515 



THE RIGHTS OF MAN. 



Though he was born to till the soil 

Or ply the busy trade, 
To pamper tyrants by his toil 

The poor man ne'er was made ; 
That wondrous flame, the soul, 's the same 

In poor or noble clay. 
And the self-same laws will try its cause 
On the final Judgment Day, 
Then here's the son of poverty, 

Who bravely fills his can, 
And drink with me to liberty. 

And the God-made rights of man. 



The reckless despot on his throne, 

Who gave him right to sway .' 
To make the suffering millions groan 

In bondage day by day.' 
Is he a god that with his rod 

Can fill unnumbered graves.' 
No! Blood and bone, he still must own. 
He's mortal like his slaves! 
Then here's the son of poverty. 

Who fearless fills his can, 
To pledge with me bright liberty. 
And the God-made rights of man. 

When delved great Adam's progeny 

j\nd our primal mothers span. 
There was no difference of degree 

E'er seen 'twixt man and man ; 
But the human might, ambition's flight, 

Have set up tyrants' rule. 
A lesson stern the nations learn 
In hard misfortune's school. 
So here's the son of poverty, 

Who stoutly fills his can. 
And works with me for liberty. 
And the God-made rights of man. 

There never was a law divine 

To make the poor bow down 
To mortal man, whate'er his line, 

However bright his crown ; 
The poor man's blood is warm and good. 

And red as his who reigns. 
And why should he bend neck or knee — 
Bow silent down in chains .' 
So here's the son of poverty 
Who fills a brimming can. 
And prays with me for liberty. 
And the God-made rights of man. 



On many a plain with fiie and steel. 

The poor man's cause was tried. 
And many a deed of noble zeal 
That great cause sanctified ; 
For that good cause, for righteous laws. 

Arise, prepare, and be 
Brave patriots all, to stand or fall. 
Soldiers of Liberty. 

And here's the son of poverty. 

Who clinks with mine his can — 
Who'll strike with me for liberty. 
And the God-made rights of man. 

ROBERT UWYER JOYCE. 



THE TENANT-AT-WILL. 
To-night my fire is faint and low, 
Outside it rains, and the chill winds blow ; 
The rain falls loud on the sodden ground, 
And the stream runs by with a mournful 

sound. 

A dark shape stands on my cabin floor. 
Its finger points to the lowly door. 
Summer and winter, in gloom or light. 
It frowns before me, by day and night. 

I go to toil on my little farm — 

It follows on. with its outstretched arm! 

In vain I labor, I curse, or pray — 

It stands and bids me, "Away! Away ! " 

Tis the landlord's Notice— that thingof fear. 
Renewed, sustained, thro' the live-long year. 
Chilling my life blood hour by hour 
With the blighting threat of a deadly power! 

When morning brightens the eastern skies 
From a troubled sleep unrefresh'd I rise, 
j And I know not whether when evening falls 
I may dare to enter these humble walls. 

And when at night I lie down to rest 
With a boding fear is my heart oppress'd ; 
For the next knock struck on my cabin door 
May be struck to tell 'tis my home no more. 

I dig and plough, but I never know 
If my hands shall gather the crop I sow. 
And the crop 1 gather, though good it be. 
Brings never plenty or peace to me. 

I pour my sweat on the soil like rain, 
I coin my blood— for another's gain : 
The more I add to the land's rich bloom. 
The nearer bring I my threaten'd doom. 



5i6 



POEMS OF LABOR. 



My little son, now to boyhood grown. 
Has a little garden he calls his own ; 
He has planted saplings and wild flowrs there. 
And he says 'tis safe in his father's care. 

My darling knows not how many a start 
His prattlings send to his father's heart. 
Nor knows the pang that he wakes the while 
His mother lists with a sadden'd smile. 

My poor pale wife .' even now 1 hear 
The landlord's name in her murmur'd pray'r, 
And I hear her say in her high appeal, 
"May the Saviour soften his heart of steel I " 

Pray, Mary darling! pray on, asthore! 
My heart is crushed, /can pray no more 
A fire lights up in my tortured brain. 
And the world around takes a ruddy stam. 

Pray, Mary darling! pray on, machree! 

For your own dear self and my children three. 

My soul is wrapped in a crimson glare, 

I must walk abroad — Let who will Beware! 



THE TINTAMARRE.* 

" Not' Maitre. this is the Tintamarre 

Of the village of Carmcray." 
So spoke a sunburnt campagnani 
By the Beauron's winding way. 
From hand to hand, from voice to voice. 

Five hundred years, men say. 
It has summoned the wear)' to rejoice 
At the death of the worker's day : 
Ha-ro-o! 
Gilles, Jacquol. 
Diett panioint au ion Comte Thibaut ! 
Ha-ro-o .' 
Martlie, Margol. 
Dieu panioint au bon Comte Tliibaut, 
Au tout bon Comte tie IHois .' 

At the first sweet sound of the Vesper bell 
The har\'ester drops the hay ; 



* According to a tradition Count Thibaut (of Blois), taking 
pity on the lot of those who toiled in the fields, fixed the hour 
for beginning and ending the day's work. Every evening when 
(he bell of the tower had rung, one could hear the workmen 
nearest to the tower warning their fellow-toilers either by 
shouts or by the sound nf their picks and spades, which 
they struck against one another. This was the Tintamarre. 
and during the confused hum could be heard the grateful 
shouts, " God pardon the good Count of Blois '"—jlfonuil. 



And leaving the last tree where it fell. 

The wood-cutter turns away. 
Then he thinks how his fathers' fathers toiled 

From dawn to dusk of day; 
And he crosses his tools in the Tintamarre. 
And he bares his brow to pray: 
Ha-ro-o! 
Marc, Michau. 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte TItibaut .' 
Ha-ro-o! 
Jean, Jeannot ! 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
Au tout bon Comte de Blois! 

The hurrying ploughman stops half way 

In the furrow turned for grain ; 
Alone, he doubles the roundelay, 

And with whetstone strikes his wain; 
The ditcher, clearing his dusty throat. 

Sends on the same refrain. 
Till the wandering goat-herd, note for note. 
Gives the Haro back again : 
Ha-ro-o ! 
Luc, Arnaud. 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut ! 
Ha-ro-o! 
Jules, Guillot. 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
Au tout bon Comte de Blois ! 

Still the miller reckons his empty sacks. 

As he stays in the mill alone ; 
Still the miserly farmers bend their backs. 

For the harvest is all their own. 
And — ha! ha! ha! " It would grieve a Turk," 

The wiseacres sighing say, 
"That the precious daylight God gave for 
work. 
Men and women should dance away. 
Ha-ro-o ! 
Jacques, Kenaud. 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut ! 
Ha-ro-o ! 
Jeanne, Babeau, 
Dieu pardoint au bon Comte Thibaut, 
Au tout bon Comte de Blois ! 

Now the fiddler's time of toil begins, 
Yet he too gives thanks to Heaven ; 

For, old and blind, he hardly wins 
The scanty bread of seven. 

And clattering after his dancing feet 
Come the village children all. 



SLEDGE AND PEN. 



517 



As they mimic the sounds of the Tintamarre, 
And echo the elders' call : 
Ha-ro-o! 
Gillcs, Jacquot. 
Dieu pardoint au boit Comte Thibaut! 
Ha-ro-o ' 
Marihc, Margot. 
Dieu pardoint an ton Comte Thibaut, 
Au tout ban Comte de Blois! 
l'envoi. 
Still, thegrandsiressay, does the good Comte 's 
Haunt forest and champ and clos, [soul 

Still he claims his lordship on every bole, 
And from every furrow thus takes his toll : 
" Dieu pardoint au honComte Thibaut ! 
Dieu pardoint au Comte de Blois !" 

JULIA M. o'RYAN. 



IN THE NIGHT TIME, 

An Artisan's Garret. 
Tink, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof, 

The dull, monotonous rain ; [cry 

And there comes from the corner a querulous 

The cry of a creature in pain. 
Oh ! child of my heart, hush that terrible wail, 

k creeps through my marrow and brain ; 
The barns overflow with the wealth of the year, 

Yet the robbers deny thee a grain. [soul. 
Lord, matched with this torture of body and 

1 count swiftest death but a trifle ; 
'Twere better than starve to fall under the hail, 

Or be clubbed by the butt of the rifle. 

Tin/;, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof. 

And my wife murmurs quick in her dreams; 
Is she walking once more where we met and 
we wed 

In that dear land of meadows and streams? 
Ah, perish the fancy, the selfish deceit — 

How she haggles and hucksters for more ! 
She is pawning her cloak for a morsel of bread. 

For the little ones stretched on the floor. 
Preach patience to Death ! O, All-seeing God, 

From my lips take this bitterest chalice. 
Better fester and rot in the hold of the hulks — 

Better swing like a thief from the gallows ! 

Tink, chink ; 'tis the rain on the roof. 
And the wind in the shivering street ; 

Ah, well for the wind and the rain they care not 
For the morrow and something to eat. 

No ghastly beseechings of hunger-blanched 



Sound mournfully wild in their ears, 
Whilst mine is the grief frozen solid and cold. 

And alien to merciful tears. 
" Lie still, trade is dull ; all the markets are 
crammed ; 

Little good in this meaningless clamor. 
The furnace is empty, the rust eats its way 

Through chisel and anvil and hammer." 

Tink, chink; 'tis the rain on the roof; 

Another day breaks in the skies ; [head 
Its light will look down through the rent over- 

On haggard and ravenous eyes. 
A spark in the fireplace — a crackle — a gleam. 

And my wife crouches down in despair 
To warm her thin hands at a morsel of fire — 

The back of our very last chair. 
Rocking and groaning — O woman, may God 

Send rest to the pangs of this sorrow ; 
There's nothing to sell, there's nothing to 
pawn. 

And the poor are too poor to borrow ! 

CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 



SLEDuE AND PEN. 

The breezy dawn has scarcely called the sky- 
lark from its nest. 

The thrush caged in the village street is ruf- 
fling from his rest. 

When Ironsides, my neighbor, opens wide his 
smithy door, [roar ; 

And, eager for his labor, sets his furnace in a 

For he's a child of nature, and he burns no 
midnight oil 

The sun, he knows, was hung in heaven to 

light men to their toil. 

Clang, cling, falls his sledge. 

Creak his bellows go; 

Clang, ding, falls his sledge. 

Bright his irons glow. 

Ho! Ho! there's health in heavy toil; there's 
bread in every blow. 

In early morn, throughout the day, until the 

sun's decline. 
I hear the anvil ring its tune, I see his furnace 

shine ; 
No sullen toiler is he; when his mid-day meal 

is o'er. 
His wife brings forth his little boy and sits 

outside the door. 
And tunes a lilting lullaby to the anvil's 

pleasant din. 



5i8 

And the song that soothes her baby nerves the 
steady arm within. 
Clang, chng, falls the sledge. 

Sweet her voice and low ; 
Clang, cling, falls the sledge. 
Creak the bellows go. 
Till baby drops a slumbering to the sound of 
voice and blow. 

Thrice happy are you, neighbor mine, with 

all your toilsome ways. 
Your nights of well-won slumber and your 

bright bread-winning days ; 
Your busy arm, your easy mind, your happy 

lack of lore. 
Are nobler boast than heritage of land or 

golden store ; 
Ah, could you know that I who watch you 

work with heavy eye. 
Who list the music of your voice and see 

your red sparks fly. 
Oft wonder if amidst your toil it enters in 

your ken 
That all your iron sledge's load is lighter than 

a pen. 
Clang, cling, swmg your sledge. 

In your furnace glow ; 
Clang, cling, swing your sledge. 

Busy to and fro. 
How happy would my days be were my lot to 

labor so. 

The sweat upon your manly brow is covenant 

with God, 
You ache your heart for no man's bread, your 

brain at no man's nod, 
And only Mother Nature holds the sovereign 

control 
O'er the fine feelings of your heart and 

passions of your soul. 
You cannot know what lis to be the property I 

of all, I 

To own no self, to know no rest, obey each ' 

heedless call ; 
To smile in grief, to weep in joy, a thought- j 

machine 'mong men, 
To have for staflf on life's rough road naught 

but the fagging pen. 
Clang, cling, swings your sledge. 

Creak your bellows go ; 
Clang, cling, rings your sledge, 

Bright the iron's glow. 
Well, every life must have its lot, there's weal [ 

for every woe. 

THO.MA.S S. CLEARV. 



POEMS OF LABOR. 



THE COBBLER. 
In cellar close and drear and dark. 

Beneath the door-sill low 
I see the cobbler's busy hands, 

I see his steady blow. 
His form is bent upon his last. 
His lamp hangs on the wall. 
And in and out he whips his ends. 
And plies his busy awl. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun ; 
Tip-tap, the night's begun. 
And he has work that must be done- 
Tip- tap. 

His apron's spread across his breast. 

Of leathern texture strong ; 
His arms are bare, his sleeves roll.d up ; 

His feet brace tight the thong 
That binds the last between his knees ; 

His pull is swift and long: 
And now the peg he hammers m, 

And hums a little song. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

For evening chat, a crony plods 

Adown the creaking stair; 
He naively cracks a rustic joke. 

And forward draws his chair; 
At wit the cobbler tries his skill. 

The friendly jest to floor ; 
In sounding words he makes retort! 

And both in chorus roar. 
Tif)-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

The current news is next discussed,— 

What men have said or done : 
And how they erred in this or that. 

And where they honor won; - 
(The best and fairest he will be 

Of whom it can be said : 
He worked to give a fellow man 

A way to earn his bread.) 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

With elbows placed upon his knees. 

And finger raised to show 
The nice deductions of his mind, 

The cobbler's reasons flow ; 
And then he pegs and pegs away : 

He knows the minutes speed; 
His work's behind the promised time 

And he has mouths to feed. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun. etc. 



GOD HELP THE POOR! 



519 



Now sound befogs the lines of sense, 
And, full of wisdom's pride, 

On reason's back he rolls a weight 
That reason will not ride ; 

But down in all the dust she lies- 
Dust of an empty head, — 

And kicks her heels against his tongue. 
Till his kind face is red. 

Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

Then, fumbling through his kit, he finds 

That solace to his care, — 
That balm between two cronies dear, — 

The pipe, which both may share. 
The smoke now curls above his head. 

From smacks both loud and full, 
Till with his thumb the shank he wipes. 

Saying, " Jim, now take a pull !" 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 



He nods with pleasure to the wall 

Where mended boots are hung. 
He points to those that great men own. 

Whose fame has long been sung ; 
To vamp the boot that honor wears 

Is fame enough for him ; 
Content is he to labor on 

Until his eyes grow dim. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

Despise him not, yc rich and vain, 

He has a father's care ; — 
His boys and girls to clothe and feed ; 

A wife his bread to share. 
Beneath his rough and homely garb, 

A manly heart and true 
Beats warm with all a father's love. 

And all that love may do. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

The pride of wealth is not for him. 

Still less the pride of fame; 
They are the thieves that rob the heart 

To gain an empty name. 
With sky above and earth beneath. 

His Eden floats between ; 
And life is bliss when power and state 

Are not with envy seen. 

Tip-tap, from sun to sun, etc. 

Some day, ere yet the sun is up. 

Or ere the sun goes down. 
The crape will hang upon his door. 

Unnoticed bv the town ; 



Like shadows will his patrons pass. 

And turn their gaze away ; 
For friendship dies between in sighs 
When friends return to clay. 
Tip-tap, from sun to sun ; 
Tip-tap, the night's begun. 
And there is work that must be done. 
Tip-tap. 

HUGH F. MCDERMOTT. 



GOD HELP THE POOR I 
The summer days are past and gone, 
And dreary winter cometh on. 

Stealthy and sure. 
God help the poor, infirm and old — 
So ill prepared to meet the cold ! 

God help the poor ! 

The sky is dull and overcast. 

And hoarsely moans the sullen blast 

O'er hill and moor; 
The drifting sleet, and drizzling rain. 
Beat drearily on the window pane — 

God help the poor! 

God help the weary, shrinking feet, 
That trudge along the miry street, 

From door to door ; 
The hesitating forms that stand. 
And knock with nervous, timid hand — 

God help the poor ! 

God help the poor, compelled to hear 
The -ude repulse, the heartless sneer ; 

They must endure 
The taunting speech, and scornful eye. 
That seem to mock their misery; 

God help the poor ' 

God help each wretched, shivering form, 
That nightly from the pelting storm. 

In nook obscure, 
Is fain to lay the aching head, 
j The cold damp earth their only bed ; 

God help the poor ! 

God pity them ; for here below 
Hard is their portion — want and woe ; 
And sorrows more 
\ Than tongue could tell, or pen could write. 
Torment them still, by day and night. 
And dog their steps with cruel spite ; 
God help the poor ! 

ELLEN FORRESTER. 



520 



l-ULMi, Uf 



THE TOILERS. 
What wonder is it if rebellious ire 
Oft-time rolls up in breasts of toiling men. 
Whose life is labor-burdened ever, when. 
With eyes a moment raised from tasks of hire. 
They see proud privilege, in pomp's attire. 
Flaunt arrogantly o'er the world, and then 
Recline in easeful indolence again. 
While still they delve in mine and plod in mire? 
O haughty ones, whose lips have but a sneer 
For God's poor children, bound in chains of 

need. 
Not theirs the blighting blame if, suffering long 
In silence, they at length alarm the sphere 
With ominous murmur and with direful deed. 
For even earth's crawling things revolt at 

wrong. DANIEL DESMOND. 

THE VOICE OF LABOR. 
A Chant of the Repeal Meetings. 1*13. 

Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this 
sight to-day. 

When stalwart trade in long brigade, beyond 
a king's array. 

Marched in the blessed light of heaven, be- 
neath the open sky. 

Strong in the might of sacred righi. that 
none dare ask them why. 

These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye 
spit upon with scorn— 

The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and 
basely bred as born ; 

Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we 
the thing ye say. 

Your broad domains, your coffered gains, 
your lives were ours to-day I 

Measure that rank, from flank to flank; 'tis 
fifty thousand strong : 

And mark you here, in front and rear, bri- 
gades as deep and long ; 

And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's 
deadly breeze, 

Tried by assay of storm or fray, more daunt- 
less hearts than these ; 

The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own 
child — the sword ; 

The men of gear, think you they fear their 
handiwork — a Lord? 

And undismayed, yon sons of trade might see 
the battle's front. 

Who bravely bors. nor bowed before, the 
deadlier face of want. 



What lack we here of show or form that lures 

your slaves to death ? 
Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor 

music's martial breath ; 
And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppliant 

race endure. 
No robbers we — but chivalry — the army of 

the poor. 
Shame on ye now. ye lordly crew, that do 

your betters wrong- 
We are no base and braggart mob. but merci- 
ful and strong. 
Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would 

fly our first defiance ; 
In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts — abides 

your sole reliance. 

Ay! keep them all. castle and hall — coffers 
and costly jewels — 

Keep your vile gain, and in its train the pas- 
sions that it fuels. 

We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or its 
decayance : 

But ye ha7ie that we claim as ours— our right 
in long abeyance; 

Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste 
our freedom — 

01 sulf'ring poor. OI patient poor, how bit- 
terly you need them ! 

•• Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your 
social charter. 

And city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is 
its martyr. 

Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat 

the goodly crop is theirs— 
I f Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats 

the fruit she rears — 
O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord. 

saving the Lord on high ; 
But we are slaves in our own land — proud 

masters, tell us why? 
The German burgher and his men. brother 

with brothers live. 
While toil must wait without your gate what 

gracious crusts you give. 
Long in your sight, for our own right, we've 

bent, and still we bend ; — 
Why did we bow? why do we now.' — proud 

masters, this must end. 

Perish the past — a generous land is this fair 

land of ours, 
.\nd enmity may no man see between its 

Towns and Towers. 



THE WORKERS. 



52f 



Come, join our bands — here take our hands — 
now shame on him that lingers, 

Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from 
labor's blistered fingers. 

Come, join at last — perish the past — its trait- 
ors, its seceders — 

Proud names and old, frank hearts and bold, 
come join and be our Leaders ; 

But know, ye lords, that be your swords with 
us or with our wronger. 

Heaven be our guide, for we shall bide this 
lot of shame no longer ! 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



SONS OF LABOR. 
Lift thy head, thou child of labor; toiling 

craftsman, be of cheer. 
Time is weaving star-bright garlands for thy 

day of crowning near. 

For thy labor stout and man-like, glorious 
meed shall yet be thine. 

When the world shall hail you noble, of an 
earth-subduing line. 

What were seed without the sower to his 

mission ever true.' 
What were harvests, if the reaper left them 

standing as they grew? 

Wheresoe'er the toiler worketh, if he work 

with faith and love, 
God himself smiles down approval from the 

halls of bliss above ; 

Stands beside the village Vulcan, aids him in 

his every blow ; 
Kling and klang, with ring incessant, while 

the iron is a-glow ; 

Throws the shuttle of the weaver, guides the 

sailor o'er the wave. 
Whispers " Onward ! " to the strong man. 

whispers " Courage ! " to the slave. 

Toil is treasure, toil is freedom, while it tasks 

the strength alway. 
Soul-ennobling, still it worketh for the 

brighter, better day. 

For the tender wives that love you. toil, my 

brothers, still toil on. 
For the loving babes that bless you, still the 

worker's vesture don. 



Wo to those in lordly places sunk in lethargy 

supine. 
With their feastings and their revels, with 

their music and their wine. 

In the balance weighed and wanting, deemed 
as worthless as the dust. 

As their life was never living, but betrayal of 
God's trust 

Comes the day of rich reprisal, comes the 

day of vengeance due. 
As they laid on load with scourges, we will 

play with scourges too. 

WILLIAM p. MULCHINOCK. 



THE WORKERS. 
Ours is the earnest strife. 

Who write and think. 
And press the grapes of life 

That you may drink. 
We lay our dearest treasure 

Before your feet. 
Nor pause the gift to measure. 

So it be sweet. 

When we the work have wrought. 

And gained the goal 
And wrung the glowing thought 

From burning soul. 
To you the key is given 

That we have won ; 
No need how hearts be riven. 

So it be done. 

Our cheeks are pale and wan, — 

Yours flushed with health ; 
And still we struggle on, 

But not for wealth. 
That you may read and learn. 

And gain in mind. — 
For this we toil, nor turn 

To look behind. 

And if we dream at all. 

Or dare to trust. 
The boon is very small : 

That our poor dust 
(When weary brain is calm. 

And peace is met.) 
The friends we gave the palm 

Shall not forget. 

DANIEL O'COXNELL. 



POEMS Of LABOJi. 



THE TRUMPET SMITH. 
Day after day, blow hot. blow cold. 

At his bench close by the window sill, 
Steadily works the Trumpet Smith. 

Steadily still ; 

Fitting the valves of a silver horn 

That coils like a snake round his naked arm. 
And the valves to the touch of his ready hand 

\Vork like a charm. — 

Blow. Trumpet Smith : ring out one blast, 
One trumpet blast I pause to hear I 

But never a note from the bugle-horn 
Falls on my ear.— 

Never a .sound of radiant music 
That might bring a tear or a smile ; 

The clink of the hammer I hear; 1 hear 
The shriek of the file. 

Unto his lips he lifts his pipe, 

And blows through his lips an azure cloud , 
But never blows he on the bugle-horn. 

Or soft or loud. — 

Unto his lips he lifts anon 

The rude-fashioned jug of tawny beer. 
But never the dumb vexatious horn 

1 long to hear. 

.And when, some night, in the Music-hall, 
The great Herr This, or Signor That. 

From the silver horn a solo breathes, 
Now sharp, now flat. 

Gloved hands in ecstacy will beat. 

Lorgnettes on the lucky wight will bear. 

But never a word of the Trumpet Smith, 
Nor thought, nor care. 

Bright eyes to the player's clang will flash ; 

Soft eyes to his whispered notes grow dim. 
But never, "Who forged yon wizard horn ' 

Tell me of him! " 



" Sic vos noH xiobis" 

Sang the Roman bard of old ; 
Forge on in the heat, O Trumpet Smith I 

Forge on in the cold I 

CHARLES DAWSiiN SHAM\ 



IN THE CITY. 
Beside the smithy window 

A thrush sings all day long. 
All in the murky city, 

.\ carolling greenwood song! 
And ever, as 1 come nigh it. 

My spirit is tilled with glee, 
.\nd ever, as I go by it. 
My heart gro\-s sad in me. 
While ringingly the hammer, 

Ringingly within. 
Maketh a merry clamor 
And a busy din. 

Therein, the Ever-worker 
Is seen from early day. 
With the glow of forge and iron 

Upon his locks of gray. 
Therein, the ancient workman 
Works ever and aye, so lone ; 
And none have heard his laughter — 
To no man he makes moan. 
While ringingly the hammer, 

Ringingly within, 
Maketh a merry clamor 
And a busy din. 

Two friends he hath— two only — 
Good hammer and sweet bird ; 
O sorrowful eyes ! you tell not 

Who may have been the third. 
Or whether the thrush is singing 

Of summers that bore no gloom 
Or whether it promiseth. sweetly. 
.■\ green bough o'er a tomb. 

When stilled shall lie the hammer, 

Silent all within. 
Hushed the weary clamor 
And the noisy din. 

UtOKGE SIGERSON. 



PART X. 

POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Reason, Folly, anJ Keauty, they say, 
Went on a party of pleasure one day : 

Folly played around the maid, 
The bell of his cap rang merrily out ; 

While Reason took to his sermon book — 
Oh ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. 

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page. 

Till Folly said, "Look here, sweet maid." 
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself ; 

While Reason read his leaves of lead. 
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf. 

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap — 
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap. — 

" There it is." quoth Folly, "old quiz !" 
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore 
That Beauty now liked him still less than before ; 

While Folly took old Reason's book, 
And twisted the leaves to a cap of such ton. 

That Beauty vowed (though not aloud) 
She liked him still better in that than his own. 

Thomas M(.jure. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



FAN FITZGERL. 
Wirra, wirra ! Ologone ! 
Can't ye lave a lad alone, 
Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any 
other girl — 
Not even Trojan Helen, 
In beauty all excellin' — 
Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan 
Fitzgerl ? 

Wid her brows of silky black. 
Arched above for the attack, 
Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor 
admirin' man ; 
Masther Cupid, point your arrows, 
From this out, agin' the sparrows. 
For you're bested at Love's archery by young 
Miss Fan. 

See what showers of goolden thread 
Lift and fall upon her head, 
The likes of such a trammel net at say was 
never spread ; 
For whin accurately reckoned, 
Twas computed that each second 
Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him 
dead. 

Now mintion, if you will, 
Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill, 
Or Magillicuddy's Reeks, renowned for crip- 
plin' all they can ; 
Still the country side confisses 
None of all its precipices 
Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of 
Fan. 



But your shatthered hearts suppose 
Safely steered apast her nose. 
She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck 
them rovin' ships. 
My maning it is simple, 
For that current is her dimple, 
And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye's to her coral 
lips. 

I might inform ye further 
Of her bosom's snowy miirther. 
And an ankle ambuscadin' through her 
gown's delightful whirl. 
But what need, when all the village 
Has forsook its paceful tillage. 
And flown to war and pillage, all for Fan 
Fitzgerl. 

Alfred Percival Graves. 



KITTY OF COLERAINE.* 
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 
With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Cole- 
raine. 
When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher 
down tumbled. 
And all the sweet butter-milk watered the 
plain. 
" Oh ! what shall I do now ? 'twas looking at 
you, now : [again ; 

Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet 
'Twas the pride of my dairy ! O, Barney 
M'Cleary, [raine !" 

You're sent as a plague to the girls of Cole- 



t' Ascribed to Edward Lysaght. 



526 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



I sat down beside her, and gently did chide 
her. 
That such a misfortune should give her such 
pain : 
A kiss then I gave her. and, ere I did leave her. 
She vowed for such pleasure shed break it 
again. 
Twas hay-making season — I can't tell the 
reason— [plain ; 

Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis 
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster 
The divil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 



SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 
Show me a sight — 
Bates for delight [at it. 

An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 

Oh, no I nothin' you'll show 
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 

Look at her there- 
Night in her hair, [out on us ! 

The blue ray of day from her eye laughing 
Faix, an' a foot, 
Perfect of cut, 

Pccpin' to put an end to all doubt in us 

That there's a sight 

Rates for delight [at it. 

An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 

Oh, no ! nothin' you'll show 
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 

How the lamb's wool 

Turns coorse an' dull [of her: 
By them soft, beautiful, weeshy. white hands 

Down goes her heel. 

Roun' goes the reel, 
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of 
her. 

Then show me a sight 
Bates for delight I it. 

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at 

Oh. no! nothin' you'll show 
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 

Talk of three Kates. 

Sated on sates. [for me ; 

Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done 

You may want three 

For your massacree. 
Hut one fate for me, boys, and only the one 
for me : 



An' isn't that fate 

Pictured complate — [at it ? 

An ould Irish wheel, wid a young Irish girl 

Oh, no ! nothin' you'll show 
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



MARY DRAPER. 
Don't talk to me of London dames. 
Nor rave about your foreign flames. 
That never lived, except in dhrames, 

Nor shone, except on paper. 
I'll sing you 'bout a girl 1 knew. 
Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew, 
And, let me tell you, mighty few 

Could aiqual Mary Draper. 

Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue. 
Her hair was brown, of deepest hue. 
Her foot was small and neat to view. 

Her waist was slight and taper; 
Her voice was music to your ear, 
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear. — 
Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear 

As from sweet Mary Draper. 

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team. 

Or with a fly she'd whip a stream. 

Or maybe sing you " Rosseau's Dream," 

For nothing could escape her; 
I've seen her, too — upon my word, — 
At sixty yards bring down her bird. — 
Oh, she charmed all the Forty-third, 

Did lovely Mary Draper I 

And at the spring assizes ball. 
The junior bar would, one and all. 
For all her favorite dances call. 

And Harry Deane would caper ; 
Lord Clare would then forget his lore ; 
King's counsel, voting law a bore. 
Were proud to figure on the floor 

For love of Mary Draper. 

The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too. 
Were all her slaves, and so would you 
If you had only but one view 

Of such a face or shape, or 
Her pretty ankles— but. otitone! 
It's only west of old Athlonc 
Such girls were found, and nowthcy're gone- 

So here's to Mary Draper. 

CHAKLKb J. LEVER. 



DERMOT AND NORA. 



527 



THE OULD PLAID SHAWL. 
Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month 

of May, 
When birds were singing cheerily, there came 

across my way. 
As if from out the sky above an angel 

chanced to fall, 
A little Irish cailiii in an ould plaid shawl. 

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on 

her arm ; 
And, oh! her face, and, oh! her grace, the 

soul of saint would charm ; 
Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but 

greatest charm of all 
Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath 

her ould plaid shawl. 

I courteously saluted her — " God save you, 

miss," says I ; 
" God save you, kindly, sir," said she, and 

shyly passed me by ; 
Off went my heart along with her a captive 

in her thrall, 
Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid 

shawl. 

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in 

pure delight. 
Till round an angle of the road she vanished 

from my sight ; [recall. 

But ever since I sighing say. as I that scene 
" The grace of God about you and your ould 

plaid shawl." 

I've heard of highway robbers that with 

pistols and with knives 
Make trembling travelers yield them up their 

money or their lives. 
But think of me that handed out my heart 

and head and all 
To a simple .little cailin in an ould plaid shawl ! 

Oh ! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas 

wear. 
And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian 

ladies fair. 
But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace. 

bow'r, or hall. 
Clad half such witching beauty as that ould 

plaid shawl. 

Oh ! some men sigh for riches, and some men 

live for fame. 
And some on history's pages hope to win a 

glorious name : 



My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes 

are but small — 
You might wrap them all together in an ould 

plaid shawl. 

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek 

her all through Clare, 
I'll search for tales or tidings of my traveller 

everywhere. 
For peace of mind I'll never find until my 

own I call 
That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl. 

FRANCIS A. FAHV. 



DERMOT AND NORA. 
' The night is fresh and calm, love. 
The birds are in their bowers ; 
And the holy light 
Of the moon falls bright 
On the beautiful sleepin' flowers. 
Sweet Nora, are you wakin' .' 
Ah ! don't you hear me spakin'.' 
My heart is well nigh breakin' 

For the love of you, Nora dear. 

Ah! why don't you spake, mavronc? 

Sure I think you're made of stone. 

Just like Venus of old — 

All so white and so cold. 

But no morsel of flesh or bone. 

You know the vow you made, love — 
You know we fixed the day ; 
And here I'm now 
To claim that vow. 
And carry my bride away. 
So, Nora, don't be stayin' 
For weepin' or for prayin' — 
There's danger in delayin', — 

Sure maybe I'd change my mind ; 
For you know I'm a bit of a rake. 
And a trifle might tempt me to break, 
Faix, but for your blue eye 
I've a notion to trj' 
What sort of ould maid you'd make." 

Ah ! Dermot, win me not, love, 

To be your bride to-night; 

How could I bear 

A mother's tear, 

A father's scorn and slight.' 

So, Dermot, cease your suin' — 

Don't work your Nora's ruin ; 

'Twould be my sore undoin' 



528 



If you're found at my window, dear." 
Ah ! for shame with your foolish alarms! 
Just drop into your Dermot's arms ; — 
Don't mind lookin' at all 
For your cloak or your shawl— 
They were made but to smother your 
charms." 

And now a dark cloud rising 
Across the moon is cast.— 
The lattice opes, 
.And anxious hopes 
Make Dermot's heart beat fast : 
And soon a form entrancing, — 
With arms and fair neck glancing,- 
Half shrinking, half advancing. 
Steps light on the lattice sill : 
When— a terrible arm in the air 
Clutched the head of the lover all bare. 
And a voice, with a scotf. 
Cried, as Dermot made off, — 
■Won't you lave us a lock of your hair.' " 

JOHN FR.ANCIS WALLER. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



KITTY MACLURE. 
Of the beauties of old. 
Heathen poets have told ; 
But I, on the faith of a Christian, more pure. 
Abjure all the lays 

Of their classical days [lure. 

For my own Irish beauty— sweet Kitty Mac- 
Cleopatra, the gypsy- 
Ariadne, the tipsy— 
Tho' bumpered by Bacchus in nectar so pure, 
I Were less worthy a toast 

I Than the beauty I boast ; 

I So, in bright Mountain Dew, here's to Kitty 



This world below here 

Is but darksome and drear ; 
So I set about finding for darkness a cure, 

And I got the sweet knowledge 

From Cupid's own college — [lure. 
'Twas light from the eyes of sweet Kitty Mac- 

If all the dark pages 

Of all the dark ages 
Were bound in one volume, you might be 
secure 

To illumine them quite. 

With the mirth-giving light 
That beams from the eyes of sweet Kitty 
Maclure! 

As Cupid, one day. 

Hide-and-seek went to play. 
He knew where to hide himself, sly and secure ; 

So, away the rogue dashes 

To hide 'mid the lashes 
That fringe the bright eyes of sweet Kitty 
Maclure. 

She thought 'twas a fly 

Had got into her eye. 
So she winked — for the tickling she could not 
endure ; 

But love would not fly 

At her winking so sly. 
And still lurks in the eye of sweet Kitty Mac- 
lure. 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



Maclure ! 

Fair Helen of Greece 

And the Roman Lucrece. 
Compared with my swan were but geese. I 
am sure. 

What poet could speak 

Of a beauty antique. 
Compared with my young one— sweet Kitty 
Maclure ? 

O, my sweet Kitty, 

So pretty, so witty. 
To melt you to pity what flames I endure ! 

While I sigh forth your name. 

It increases my flame, 
Till I'm turned into cinders for Kitty Maclure ! 



MOLLY CAREW. 
Och hone! and what will I do? 

Sure my love is all crost 

Like a bud in the frost. 
And there's no use at all in my going to bed. 
For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, that comes 
into my head ; 

And 'tis all about you. 

My sweet Molly Carew — 
And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ! 

You're complater than nature 

In every feature; 

The snow can't compare 

With your forehead so fair, |eye 

And I rather would see just one blink of your 
Than the prettiest star that shines out of the 

And by this and by that, [sky. 

For the matter o' that. 
You're more distant by far than that same. 

Och hone I weirasthru! 

I'm alone in this world without you. 



RORY a MORE. 



529 



Och hone ! but why should I spake 
Of your forehead and eyes. 
When your nose it defies [rhyme, 
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 
Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would 
call it snublime ; 
And then for your cheek. 
Troth 'twould take him a week. 
Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather ; 
Then your lips ! O, machree, 

In their beautiful glow. 
They a pattern might be 

For the cherries to grow. [know, 
'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago. 
But at this time o' day. 
'Pon my conscience I'll say. 
Such cherries might tempt a man's father! 
Och hone, weirasthru ! 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Och hone I by the man in the moon. 
You taze me all ways 
That a woman can plaze. 
For you dance twice as high with that thief 

Pat Magee. 
As when you take shareof a jig. dear, with me. 
Tho' the piper I bate. 
For fear the owld chate 
Wouldn't play you your favorite tune. 
And when you're at Mass, 
My devotion you crass. 
For 'tis thinking of you. 
I am, Molly Carew. 
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep. 
That I can't at your sweet purty face get a 
peep; 
O, lave ofif that bonnet. 
Or else I'll lave on it 
The loss of my wandering sowl ; 

Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
O :h hone ! like an owl. 

Day is night, dear, to me. without you ! 

Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 
For there's girls by the score 
That loves me — and more. 
A.nd you'd look very quare if some morning 
you'd meet [street ; 

My wedding all marching in pride down the 
Troth, you'd open your ej'es. 
And you'd die with surprise 
To think 'twasn't you was come to it ; 
And faith, Kitty Naile 
And her cow. I go bail, 



Would jump if I'd say, 
" Katty Naile, name the day." 
And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning 

in May, 
While she's short and dark like a cowld 
winter's day ; 
Yet if you don't repent 
Before Easter, when Lent 
Is over. I'll marry for spite, 

Och hone ! weirasthru ! 

And when I die for you. 

My ghost will haunt you every night. 

.SAMUEL LOVER. 



RORY O'MORE. 
Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the 

dawn : 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please. 
And he thought the best way to do that was 

to tease 
"Now, Rorj', be aisy," sweet Kathleen would 

cry, 
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) 
"With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what 

I'm about; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak 

inside out." 
"Oh! jewel," says Ror)'. "that same is the 

way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a day ; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be 

sure ? 
For 'tis all for good luck." saj's bold Rory 

O'More. 

" Indeed, then." says Kathleen, "don't think 

of the like. 
For I half gave a promise to sootherin' 

Mike: 
The ground that I walk on he loves. I'll be 

bound." 
"Faith," says Rorj', "I'd rather love you than 

the ground." 
" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hatin' you 

so!" 
"Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted 

to hear. 
For drames always go by conthrairies, my 

dear; 



53" 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Oh! jewel, keep dramin' that same til! you j 

die. 
And bright mornin' will give dirty night the 

black lie ! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be 

sure ? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rorj' 

OMore. i 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased | 

me enough. 
Sure I've thrash 'd foryoursake Dinny Grimes 

and Jim Duff; ! 

And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, 

quite a baste. 
So I think after that, I may talk to the priest." 
Then Rory the rogue, stole his arm round 

her neck. 
So soft and so white, without freckle or 

speck. 
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming 

with light. 
And he kissed her sweet lips; — don't you 

think he was right? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir ; you'll hug me no 

more. 
That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd nie 

before." 
'• Then here goes another," says he, " to make 

For there's luck in odd numbers." says Rory 
O'More. 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



Rose, herself, was taken bad. 

The fayver worse each day was growin': 
"Lanty dear," says she, " 'tis sad. 

To th' other world I'm surely goin' ; 
You cant survive my loss, I know. 

Nor long remain in Tipperary. 
Won't you follow me.' won't you follow me?" 

" Faith I won't," says Lanty Leary I 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



LANTY LEARY. 



Lanty is in love, you see. 

With lovely, lively Rosie Carey, 
But her father can't agree 

To give the girl to Lanty Leary. 
" Up to fun, away we'll run," 

Says she, •' my father's so conthrairy ; 
Won't you follow me.' won't you follow me.' 

" Faith, I will," says Lanty Leary I 

But her father died one day 

(I hear 'twas not by dhrinkin' wather) ; 
House, and land, and cash, they say. 

He left by will to Rose, his daughther ; 
House, and land, and cash to seize. 

Away she cut so light and air\' : 
" Won't you follow me ? won't you follow me .' 

•■ Faith 1 will I " says Lanty Leary. 



THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 
O I don't be bcguilin' my heart with your 
wilin'. 
You've tried that same thrick far too often 
before. 
.And by this blessed minnit an' day that is in it, 
I'll take right good care that you'll try it no 
more ! 
You thought that so slyly you walked with 
O'Reilly. 
By man and by mortal unheard and unseen. 
While your hand he kept squeezin'. and you 
looked so pleasin'. 
Last Saturday night in your fathor's boreen. 

His thricks and his schaniin' has set you a 
dhramin'; 
That any one blessed with their eyesight 
may see. 
You're not the same crature you once wor by 
nature. 
And they that are thraitors won't do. faith, 
for me I 
Tho' it is most distressin' to think that a 
blessin' [scene. 

Was just about fallin' down plump on the 
When a cunning culloger.as black as an ogre. 
Upsets all your hopes in a dirty boreen. 

And 'tis most ungrateful, unkind, and un- 
faithful, 
When you verj' well know how 1 gave the 
go-by [treasure. 

Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation and 
To dress all my looks by the light of your 
eye. ley — 

O ! 'tis Marj' Mullally. that lives in the val- 
'Tis she that would say how ill-used I have 
been. 
And she's not the deludher to smile and to 
soother. 
And then walk away to her father's boreen. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 



531 



I'll send you your garter, for now I'm a martyr, 
And keepsakes and jims are the least of 
my care, 
So when things are exchangin', since you took 
to rangin' 
I'll trouble you, too, for the lock of my hair. 
I know by its shakin', my heart is a-breakin'. 
You'll make me a corpse when I'd make 
you a queen, 
But as sure as I'm livin', it's you I'll be givin' 
A terrible fright when I haunt the boreen ! 
Anonymous. 



THE WIDOW MALONE. 
Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 

Ochone ! 
Who lived in the town of Athlone .' 

Ochone ! 
Oh, she melted the hearts 
Of the swains in them parts. 
So lovely the Widow Malone, 

Ochone ! 
So lovely the Widow Malone. 

Of lovers she had a full score, 

Or more. 
And fortunes they all had galore. 

In store; 
From the minister down 
To the clerk of the crown. 
All were courting the Widow Malone, 

Ochone ! 
All were courting the Widow Malone. 

But so modest was Mistress Malone, 

'Twas known. 
That no one could see her alone, 

Ochone ! 
Let them ogle and sigh. 
They could ne'er catch her eye. 
So bashful the Widow Malone, 

Ochone ! 
So bashful the Widow Malone. 

'Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare — 

How quare ! 
It's little for blushing they care 

Down there. 
Put his arm 'round her waist — 
Gave ten kisses at laste — 
" Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone, 

My own I 
Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone." 



And the widow they all thought so shy. 

My eye I 
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh. 

For why .' 
But, " Lucius," says she, 
" Since you've now made so free. 
You may marry your Mary Malone, 

Ochone I 
You may marry your Mary Malone." 

There's a moral contained in my song, 

Not wrong. 
And one comfort it's not very long. 

But strong — 
If for widows you die. 
Learn to kiss, not to sigh. 
For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 

Ochone ! 
Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 

CHARLF..S J. LEVER. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 
Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 
black gown, 
Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
How altered your air. 
With that close cap you wear — 
'Tis destroyin' your hair. 

Which should be flowin' free: 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

Widow Machree, now the summer is come, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
When everything smiles, should a beauty look 
glum.? 
Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
See the birds go in pairs. 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why, even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish, 
Though they can't spake, they wish, 
Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, 
Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 

To be pokin' the fire all alone is a sin, 
Och hone I Widow Machree. 



532 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 

Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup. 
Like a hermit you sup. 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts I've 
towld, 
Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
But you're keepin' some poor fellow out in the 
cowld, 
Och hone I Widow Machree. 
With such sins on your head, 
Sure your pyeace would be fled. 
Could you sleep in your bed. 
' Without thinkin' to see 

1 Some ghost or some sprite. 

That would wake you each night. 
Crj^ing, " Och hone ! Widow Machree." 

Then take myadvice.darlin' Widow Machree. 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
And with myadvice. faith I wish you'd take me, 
Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
I You'd have me to desire, 

I Then to stir up the fire, 

And sure hope is no liar 

In whisperin' to me 
That the ghosts would depart 
I When you'd me near your heart, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



1 

WIDOWOLOGY PHILOSOPHIZED. 
Oh ! none of your boarding-school misses. 
Your sweet, timid creatures for me, 
\ Who rave about Cupid and blisses. 
i Yet know not what either may be. 
j I don't feel at all sentimental. 
Nor care I for Byron a rap — 
But give me a jolly and gentle 
Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 

To her I would ofTer my duty, 
' For, in truth, all belief it exceeds — 
How vastly the blossom of beauty 

Is heightened by peeping from " weeds.' 
She is armed cap-a-pie for the struggle, 

To her cap I a captive belong ; 
And the wink of her magical ogle 

Is a challenge to courtship and song. 



The tremors of girlhood are over. 

Love's blossom has ripened to fruit ; 
And her • first love " asleep under clover. 

Is the soil where my passion takes root. 
"Tis pleasant to know •• the departed 

Was tenderly cared to the last." 
And that she will not die broken-hearted 

If I should pop off just as fast. 

Her temper is never so restive — 

Her duty she knows^ -and a shape 
Is never so sweetly suggestive 

As when it is muffled in crape. 
The maid wears one ring when she marries. 

In proof she all others discards. 
While the widow-wife wiselier carries 

.\ pair of these marital guards. 
So none of your boarding-school misses. 

Your sweet, timid creatures for me. 
Who rave about Cupid and blisses. 

Yet know not what either may be. 
1 don't feel at all sentimental, 

Nor care I for Byron a rap — 
But give me a jolly and gentle 

Young widow, in weeds and a cap. 

CH.\RLi;.S G. HALPINE. 



TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS. 
I love — oh. more than words can tell 

(Your ninety thousand golden shiners) ; 
You draw me by a nameless spell 

(As California draws the miners) ; 
You are so rich in beauty's dower 

(And rich in several ways beside it). 
Had I your hand within my power 

(Across a banker's draft to guide it). 
No care my future life could dim 
(My tailor, too — what joy to him I). 

Oh. should you change your name for mine 

(I've given my name — on bills — to twenty). 
Existence were a dream divine 

(At least so long as cash was plenty); 
Our home should be a sylvan grot 

(Bath, billiard, smoking-room, and larder), 
And there, forgetting and forgot 

(My present need. I'd live the harder). 
Our days should pass in fresh delights 
(Lethargic days, but roaring nights). 

Oh say, my young, my fawn-like girl 
(She's old enough to be my mother). 

Let •• Yes " o'erleap those gates of pearl 
(My laughter it is hard to smother) ; 



ORATOR PUFF. 



533 



Let lips that Love hath formed for joy 
(For joy if they her purse resign me) 

Long hesitate ere they destroy 

(And to a debtor's jail consign me) 

The heart that beats but to adore 

(Yourself the less, your fortune more). 

Consent — consent, my priceless love, 

(Her price precise is ninety thousand) ; 
I swear by all around, above 

(Her purse-strings now, I feel, are loosened), 
I have not loved you for your wealth 

(Nor loved at all, as I'm a sinner) ; 
Oh bliss! you yield ; one kiss by stealth ! 

(I'm sick — that kiss has spoiled my dinner); 
Now early name the blissful day 
(My duns grow clamorous for their pay). 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



THE V-A-S-E. 
From the madding crowd they stand apart. 
The maidens four and the Work of Art ; 

And none might tell from sight alone 
In which had Culture ripest grown — 

The Gotham Million lair to see. 
The Philadelphia Pedigree, 

The Boston Mind of azure hue, 

Or the soulful soul from Kalamazoo — 

For all loved Art in a seemly way. 
With an earnest soul and a capital A. 



Long they worshipped ; but no one broke 
The sacred stillness, until up spoke 

The Western one from the nameless place. 
Who, blushing said : " What a lovely vase." 

Over three faces a sad smile flew. 

And they edged away from Kalamazoo. 

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred 
To crush the stranger with one small word. 

Deftly hiding reproof in praise. 

She cries : " 'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze I 

But brief her unworthy triumph when 
The lofty one from the house of Penn, 

With the consciousness of two grandpapas. 
Exclaims ; " It is quite a lovely vahs I " 



And glances round with an anxious thrill, 
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. 

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee 
And gently murmurs: "Oh, pardon me ! 

I did not catch your remark, because 

I was so entranced with that charming vaws ! 

Dies en't prcegelida 
Sinistra qtium Bostonia. 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



ORATOR PUFF. 
Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice. 
The one squeaking thus, and the other 
down sol 
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your 
choice, 
For one was B alt, and the rest G below. 

Oh! oh! Orator Puff! 
One voice for one orator's surely enough. 

But he still talked away spite of coughs and 

ot frowns. 
So distracting all ears with his ups and his 

downs 
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, 
" My voice is for war," asked him, " Which of 
them, pray.'" 

O'h ! oh. Orator Puff ! 
One voice for one orator's surely enough. 

Reeling homeward one evening top-heavy 
with gin. 
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of 
the crown. 
He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in, 
" Sinking fund," the last word as his noddle 
came down. 

Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff ! 
One voice for one orator's surely enough. 

" Help ! help!" he exclaimed in his he and s'ne 

tones, 
" Help me out! help me out! — I have broken 

my bones !" 
"Help you out.'" said a Paddy who passed, 

" what a bother ! 
Why, there's two of you there, can't you help 

one another.'" 

Oh! oh! Orator Puff! 
One voice for one orator's surely enough. 

THIJMAS MOOKE. 



j4 

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. 
" Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother. 

Sweet Mar>'," says I 
"Oh. don't talk to my mother," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry: 
" For my mother says men are decaivers. 

And never, I know, will consent; 
She says girls in a hurry who marry. 

At leisure repent." 

"Then, suppose I should talk to your father. 

Sweet Mar)-," says 1 ; 
"Oh, don't talk to my father, " says Mary, 

Beginning to cry: 
" For my father he loves me so dearly. 

He'll never consent I should go ; — 
If you talk to my father," says Mary, 

He'll surely say ' No.' " 

" Then how shall I get you. my jewel. 

Sweet Mary .' " says I ; 
" If your father and mother's so cruel. 

Most surely 111 die!" 
" Oh, never say die. dear, " says Mary ; 

A way now to save you I see : 
Since my parents are both so conthrairy. 

You'd belter ask me." 

SAMUEL LOVER. 



MY FIDDLE. 
My fiddle?— Well. I kind o' keep her handy, 

don't you know! 
Though I aint so much inclined to tromp the 
strings and switch the bow [dry, 
As I was before the timber of my elbows got so 
And my fingers was more limber-like and 
caperish and sprj* ; 
Yet I can plonk and plunk and plink, 

And tune her up and play. 
And jest lean back and laugh and wink 
At ev'ry rainy day ! 

My playin's only middlin' — tunes I picked up 

when a boy— 
The kind-o'sort-o' fiddlin. that the folks calls 

•' cordaroy ;" 
" The Old Fat Gal. " and " Rye-straw, " and 

" My Sailyor's on the Sea," 
Is the old cowtillions 1 " saw " when the 
ch'ice is left to me ; 
And so I plunk and plonk and plink. 

And rosum-up my bow, 
And play the tunes that makes you think 
The devil's in your toe ! 



I was alius a romancin', do-less boy, to tell 

the truth, 
A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a wastin' of my 

youth, 
And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly 
pranks [thanks! 

That wasn't worth a button of anybody's 
But they tell me, when I ust to plink 

And plonk and plunk and play. 
My music seemed to have the kink 
O' drivin' cares away I 

That's how this here old fiddle's won my 

heart's indurin' love! 
From the strings acrost her middle to the 

schreechin' keys above — 
From her "apern," over bridge, and to the 

ribbon round her throat. 
She's a wooin,' cooin' pigeon, singin' ' 
me " ev'r)' note ! 
And so I pat her neck and plink 
Her strings with lovin' hands, 
And. list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think 
She kind o' understands. 

JA.MES WmiCDMB RILEV. 



Love 



A CANARY AT THE FARM. 
Folks has been to town, and Sahry 
Fetched her home a pet canary; — 
And of all of the blame", contrary, 

.Agger\atin' things alive ! , 
I love music — that's. 1 love it 
When it's free— and plenty of it, — 
But I kind o' git above it 

.\t a dollar-eighty-five ! 

It's just as I'm a-sayin'. 
The idy, now, o' lay in' 
Out yer money, and a payin' 

For a wilier-cage and bird. 
When the medder-larks is wingin" 
Round you, and the woods a-ringin' 
With the beautifullest singin' 

That a mortal ever heard ! 

Sahry s sot, tho', — so I tell her 

He's a purty little feller. 

With his wings o' creamy-yeller, 

,^nd eyes keen as a cat ; 
And the twitter o' the critter 
Seems to absolutely glitter ! 
Guess I'll have to go and git her 

A better cage 'n that ! 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 



FATHER O'FLYNN. 



535 



THE MAN FOR GALWAY. 
To drink a toast, a proctor roast. 
Or bailiff, as the case is. 
To kiss your wife, or take your life 
At ten or fifteen paces ; 
To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox. 
To drink in punch the Solway, 
With debts galore, but, fun far more — 
O ! that's the man for Galway. 

With debts galore, etc. 

The king of Oude is mighty proud, 
And so were wonct the Caysars, 
Butould Giles Eyre would make them stare, 
Av he had them with the " Blazers." 
To the devil I fling Ould Runjeet Sing- 
He's only a prince in a small way, 
And knows nothingat all of a six-foot wall — 
O ! he'd never do for Galway. 
With debts galore, etc. 

Ye think the Blakes are no great shakes ; 
They're all his blood relations ; 
And the Bodkins sneeze at the grim Chinese 
For they come from the Phenaycians : 
So fill to the brim, and here's to him 
Who'd drink in punch the Solway ; 
With debts galore, but fun far m.ore — 
O ! that's the man for Galway. 
With debts galore, etc. 

CHARLES J. LEVER. 



THE GALWAY MARE. 
In the course of my wand'rings, from Cong to 

Kanturk — 
And a man of his honor is Jeremy Burke — 
I've seen many horses, but none, I declare. 
Could compate wid Jack RafTerly's fox-hunt- 
in' mare. 
She was black as the sut. 
From the head to the fut. 
And as nate in her shapes as a royal Princess : 
Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
power — 
'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 

No Arabian charger that's bred in the South 
Had so silky a coat or obaydient a mouth ; 
And her speed was so swift, man alive ! I'd go 

bail 
She'd slipclane away from the Holyhead mail. 

Her asiest saunther 

Was quick as a canther. 



Her gallop resimbled a lightnin' express : 
Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
power — 
'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less! 

There was never a fence so conthrairy or cruel 
But she would contrive to surmount it, the 

jewel ! 
And Jack on her back, widout gettin' a toss. 
Glared ditches, no matter how crabbed or 
cross. 
An iligant shtepper, 
A wondherful lepper — 
Don't talk of Bucephalus or of Black Bess :— 
Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
power — 
'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 

They wereclifted,* the two of them. Jack and 
the mare, 

Returnin'one night from the Blackwater fair; 

Bad 'cess to that road ! in the worst place of all 

There isn't a sign or a taste of a wall. 
Sure the Barony's grief 
Was beyant all belief — 

'Twas the loss of the mare caused the greater 
disthress: 

Twinty miles in the hour was her lowest horse- 
power — 

'Twould desthroy her intirely to go at a less ! 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



FATHER O'FLYNN. 
Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety. 
Far renowned for larnin' and piety, 
Still I'd advance you, without impropriety. 
Father O'Flynn is the flower o' them all. 
Here's a health to you. Father O'Flynn, 
Slainthe, and slainthe, and slainthe again, 
Powerfullest preacher, 
And tindherest teacher. 
And kindliest creature in old Donegal. 

Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
Far renowned for Greek and Latinity, 
Gad and the divils and all at Divinity, [all. 
Father O'Flynn would make hares o' them 
Come, I venture to give you my word 
Never the likes of his logic was heard. 
Down from mythology. 
Into thayology. 
Troth, and conchology, if he'd the call. 



5^36 

Father OTIynn. you've the wonderful way 

with you, 
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray with 

you. 
All the young childer are wild for to play with 
you. 
You've such a way with you. Father, avick ! 
Still for all you're so gentle a soul, 
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest 
control ; 

Checking the crazy ones. 
Coaxing unaisy ones. 
Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick. 

And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity, 
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity. 
Where is the play-boy can claim an equality 
At comicality. Father, with you ? 

Once the bishop looked grave at your 

jest. 
Till this remark set him off with the rest: 
" Is it leave gaiety 
All to the laity ? 
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too? " 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



NEVER SAY DIE. 

Why such a row? What ails you now, de- 
sponding Stoneybatter man ? 

You'll jump from off a bridge, indeed ? God 
bless us, what's the matter, man ? 

If she disdain your amorous pain, for militarj' 
Pat. her man, 

Because he's very tall and slim, and you're a 
shorter, fatter man. 

Speak out the truth, and tell the youth you're 
quite resolved to shatter, man. 

To smithereens all rivals, whether parrot, 
poodle, cat, or man — 

For love makes all things bellicose — or mon- 
key, dandy, rat. or man. 

So thrash the sergeant, if you can. then boldly 
up and at her. man. 

If you surmise you'll win by sighs, we never 
met a flatter man — 

In fact, by dad, you're ravin' mad, as ever was 
a hatter, man. 

Then try a little romping, till hercapand wig 
you tatter, man. 

And laud her pa, and praise her ma, espe- 
cially the latter, man. 

Soft-sawderize her shape and size, and every 
feature flatter, man. 



And oft you'll be asked in to tea. and soft. 

familiar chatter, man. 
The barking curs, his jmgling spurs, and rat- 
tling sabre's clatter, man, 
i Shall sound in vain, tho' sleet and rain upon 
I his shako patter, man. 
I While you within enjoy the din, before a 

smoking platter, man — 
That's better tried than suicide, so, courage ! 
Stoneybatter man. 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



THREE TROUT A DAY. 
You may think it looks quare. but in troth 

it's no lie. 
You may fish in that lough till the water runs 

dr>'. 
.An' ketch your three trout a day.aisy an' free. 
But the divil a wan more you will ketch but 

the three. 

The raison is this, as the ould people say. 
Saint Columbkille reg'lar came here for to 

pray. 
An' a man used to come, much again' the 

saint's wish. 
An' plowter for hours in the water for fish. 

An' many a time he wud come onawares. 
When the saint was a-countin' his beads at 

his prayers ; 
\n' bother him so with his nonsense and talk. 
Till the saint in a rage wud 'a tould him to 

" walk." 

Then he'd into the water, an' there he wud 

stay, 
A-plowterin' an' singin' an' whistlin' away. 
An' wi' fishin' an' singin'. the saint was so 

crossed. 
That many a good pattr an' <?<■<■ he lost. 

So the saint was so vexed that he thocht on a 

plan 
Of how he'd get redd av this bothersome man ; 
For afore he'd be bate, he'd reduce the supply 
Av the fish or— what's worse— make the well 

become dry. 

For he knew that the haythen— whose name 

was M'Gurk. 
.\n' who wasn't a Christian no more nor a 

Turk— 



THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 



537 



Wud bother him less if he scarcened the trout, 
So, says Columb, " The divil a much more 
he'll get out." 

So next day when M'Gurk came along at his 

aise 
With his ass an' his creels, sor, as proud as 

you plase. 
For to hould all his fish in — the saint says, 

says he. 
" Shure you won't need a couple av creels for 

the three.'" 

"What three.'" says M'Gurk. " Well," says 

Columb, says he — 
•■The three trout you'll ketch, for you'll only 

ketch three. 
An' mind when you've got them you're foolish 

to stay. 
For the sorra a wan more you will ketch for 

the day !" 

Well, M'Gurk didn't mind, and he soon 

polished out 
Three beauties — the purtiest, darlin' big 

trout ; 
An' he laughed at the saint, an' says he. •' If 

ye wait 
I'll hook ye wan more for your bre'kquest to 



Well, he whistled an' sung, an' he fished all the 

day. 
But the trout all went by in a curious way ; 
Says St. Columb, " Go home now, it's gettin' 

too late, 
'Stead av baitin' the fish, it's yourself that is 

bate. 

"You're hungry, no doubt, an' it sarves you 

quite right ; 
You've been stan'in' all day without gettin' a 

bite ; 
An' when next time to visit the trout you'll 

incline, 
They'll all know that you're there without 

droppin' a line." 

Well, M'Gurk. sor, was mad ; but feth not to 

be done; 
He went home, an' next mornin' rose up wi' 

the sun ; 
An' off to the lough with his rod an' his line. 
An' ketched his three trout by a quarter to 

nine. 



But although he began with the song av the 

lark. 
An' wandered and waded till long after dark. 
Till the divil a line or a stym he could see. 
When his day's work was done he had only 

tuk three. 

An' that was his luck iv'ry day that he came; 
Try this bait or that bait, 'twas always the 

same, 
Barrin' now an' again the saint gave him bad 

scran 
For divarshin, an' let him hook two, or jist 



So, after awhile, sor, says he, wan fine day, 
" By the hokey, I'll fish no more here — it 

won't pay." 
So he nivir went back, and some boul' people 

blame 
Saint Columb for keepin' the charm on the 



But in troth, it's the case, sor, I'm tellin' no lie. 
You may fish in that lough till the water runs 

dry. 
An' ketch your three trout a-dayaisy and free 
But the Divil a wan more you will catch but 

the three. 

DAVID HKPBURN. 



THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. 
The groves of Blarney, they are so charming, 

All by the purling of sweet silent streams ; 

Being banked by posies that spontaneous 

grow there. 

Planted in order by the sweet rock close. 

'Tis there's the daisy and the sweet carnation. 

The blooming pink and the rose so fair; 
The daffydowndilly, besides the lily, — 
Flowers that scent the sweet, fragrant air. 
Och. Ullagoane 

'Tis Lady Jeft'ers that owns this station. 

Like Alexander or Queen Helen fair ; 
There's no commander throughout the nation 

For emulation can with her compare. 
She has castles round her that no nine- 
pounder 

Could dare to plunder her place of strength; 
But Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel, 

And made a breach in her battlement. 
Och, Ullagoane. 



538 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



There's gravel walks there for speculation. 

And conversation in sweet solitude ; 
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or 

The gentle plover, in the afternoon ; 
And if a young lady should be so engaging 

As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 
Tis there her courtier he may transport her 

Into some dark fort or under ground. 
Och, Ullagoane. 

Tis there's the cave where no daylight enters. 

But bats and badgers are for ever bred ; 
Being mossed by nature, that makes it sweeter 

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 
'Tis there's the lake that is stored with 
perches, 
And comely eels in the verdant mud ; 
• Besides the leeches, and groves of beeches. 
All standing in order for to guard the flood. 
Och, Ullagoane, 

Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch 

With the maids a stitching upon the suir; 
The head and biske, the beer and whiskey. 

Would make you frisky if you were there. 
Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter 

A washing praties foment the door. 
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy. 

All blood relations to Lord Donoughmore. 
Och, Ullagoane. 

There's statues gracing this noble place in, 

All heathen goddesses and nymphs so fair, — 
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus, 

All standing naked in the open air. 
So now to finish this brief narration, 

Which my poor geni' could not entwine; 
But were 1 Homer or Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis in every feature I'd make it shine. 
Och, Ullagoane. 

RICHARD A. MILLIKEN". 



And in winter, with bacon and eggs. 

And a place at the turf-fire tmskin', 
] Sip my punch as I'm toastin' my legs, — 

Oh ! the divil a more I'd be askin'. 
For I havn't a jaynius for work, 

It was never a gift of the Bradys, — 
But I'd make a most illigant Turk, 

For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies. 

I CHARLES J. LEVER. 



IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE. 
It's little for glory 1 care. 

Sure ambition is only a fable ; 
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor, 

Wid lashins of drink on the table. 
I like to lie down in the sun. 

And drame when my faytures is scorchin', 
That when I'm too ould for more fun. 

Why, I'll marry a wife wid a fortune. 



BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHIN'. 

Bad luck to this marchin', 

Pipe-clayin'and starchin'; [French! 
How neat one must be to be kilt by the 

I'm sick of paradin'. 

Through wet and cowld wadin'. 
Or standin' all night to be shot in a trench 

To the tune of a fife 

They dispose of your life. 
You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt; 

Now I like " Garryowen " 

When I hear it at home. 
But it's not half so sweet when you're goin' 
to be kilt. 

Then, though up late and early, 

Our pay comes so rarely, 
The divil a farthin' we've ever to sp)are; 

They say some disaster 

Befell the paymaster ; [not there. 
On my conscience I think that the money's 

And, just think, what a blunder. 

They won't let us plunder, ['tis clear; 
While the convents invite us to rob them. 

Though there isn't a village 

But cries : '• Come and pillage !" 
Yet we lave all the mutton behind for 
Monseer. 

Like a sailor that's nigh land, 

I long for that Island 
Where even the kisses we stale if we plase; 

Where it is no disgrace 

If you don't wash your lace, [aise. 
And you've nothing to do but to stand at your 

With no sergeant to abuse us, 

We fight to amuse us, [baboon ; 

Sure it's better beat Christians than kick a 

How I'd dance like a fairy 

To see old Dunleary, 
And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a 
dragoon ! 

CHARLES J. LEVER. 



THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 



539 



LITANY FOR DONERAILE. 

Alas ! how dismal is my tale ! — 

I lost my watch in Doneraile ; 
I My Dublin watch, my chain and seal, 
[ Pilfered at once in Doneraile. 

May fire and brimstone never fail 
1 To fall in showers on Doneraile ; 
! May all the leading fiends assail 
i The thieving town of Doneraile ; 

May beef or mutton, lamb or veal 

Be never found in Doneraile ; 

But garlic soup and scurvy kail 

Be still the food of Doneraile ; 

And forward as the creeping snail 

Th' industry be of Doneraile ; 

May Heaven a chosen curse entail 

On rigid, rotten Doneraile ; 

May sun and moon for ever fail 

To beam their lights in Doneraile ; 

May every pestilential gale 

Blast that cursed spot called Doneraile ; 

May no sweet cuckoo, thrush, or quail. 

Be ever heard in Doneraile ; 

May patriots, kings, and commonweal. 

Despise and harass Doneraile ; 

May every Post, Gazette, and Mail, 

Sad tidings bring of Doneraile ; 

May loudest thunders ring a peal 

To blind and deafen Doneraile ; 

May vengeance fall at head and tail. 

From north to south, at Doneraile ; 

May profit light, and tardy sale. 

Still damp the trade of Doneraile ; 

May Fame resound a dismal tale, 

Whene'er she lights on Doneraile ; 

May Egypt's plagues at once prevail. 

To thin the knaves of Doneraile ; 

May frost and snow, and sleet and hail. 

Benumb each joint in Doneraile; 

May wolves and bloodhounds trace and trail 

The cursed crew of Doneraile ; 

May Oscar, with his fiery flail. 

To atoms thresh all Doneraile ; 

May every mischief, fresh and stale. 

Abide, henceforth, in Doneraile ; 

May all, from Belfast to Kinsale, 

Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile; 

May neither flour nor oaten meal 

Be found or known in Doneraile ; 

May want and woe each joy curtail 

That e'er was known in Doneraile ; 

May no one coffin want a nail 

That wraps a rogue in Doneraile ; 

May all the thieves that rob and steal, 



The gallows meet in Doneraile ; 
May all the sons of Granaweal 
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile ; 
May mischief, big as Norway whale, 
O'erwhelm the knaves of Doneraile ; 
May curses, wholesale and retail. 
Pour with full force on Doneraile ; 
May every transport wont to sail 
A convict bring from Doneraile ; 
May every churn and milking-pail 
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile ; 
May cold and hunger still congeal 
The stagnant blood of Doneraile ; 
May every chosen ill prevail 
O'er all the imps of Doneraile ; 
May no one wish or prayer avail 
To soothe the woes of Doneraile ; 
May th' Inquisition straight impale 
The rapparees of Doneraile ; 
May Charon's boat triumphant sail. 
Completely manned, from Doneraile ; 
Oh ! may the couplets never fail 
To find a curse for Doneraile ; 
And may grim Pluto's inner gaol 
Forever groan with Doneraile. 

PATRICK O' KELLY. 



THE MONKS OF THE SCREW.* 
When St. Patrick this order established. 

He called as " The Monks of the Screw." 
Good rules he revealed to our Abbot, 

To guide us in what we should do. 
But first he replenished our fountain 

With liquor the best in the sky, 
And pledged on the faith of his saintship 

That the fountain should never run dry. 

Each year when your octaves approach. 

In full chapter convened let me find j'ou ; 
And when to the convent you come. 

Leave your favorite temptation behind you. 
And be not a glass in your convent 

Unless on a festival found ; 
And this rule to enforce, I ordain it 

A festival all the year round. 

My brethren, be chaste — till you're tempted ; 

While sober be grave and discreet ; 
And humble your bodies with fasting 

As oft as you've nothing to eat. 



54u_ 

Yet in honor of fasting one lean face 

Among you I'd always require: 
If the Abbot should please he may wear it. 

If not, let it romc to the Prior. 

Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren. 

And with due devotion prepare. 
With hands and with voices uplifted. 

Our hymn to conclude with a prayer 
May this chapter oft joyously meet, 

And this gladsome libation renew 
To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot, 

And Prior, and Monks of the Screw. 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



J(.H> 



l-HILHOr CURRAN. 



THE MAID OF CLOGHROE.* 
As I roved out at Faha one morning. 

Where Adrum's tall groves were in view. 
When Sol's lucid beams were adorning. 

And the meadows were spangled with dew; 
Reflecting, in deep contemplation, 

On the state of my country kept low, 
I perceived a fair juvenile female 

On the side of the hill of Cloghroe. 

Her form resembled fair Venus, 

That amorous Cyprian queen ; 
She's the charming young sapling of Erin, 

As she gracefully trips on the green ; 
She's tall, and her form is graceful. 

Her features are killing also; 
She'sacharming, accomplished young maiden, 

This beautiful dame of Cloghroe. 

Fair Juno, Minerva, or Helen. 

Could not vie with this juvenile dame ; 
Hibernian swains are bewailing. 

And anxious to know her dear name. 
She's tender, she's tall, and she's stately. 

Her complexion much whiter than snow ; 
She outrivals all maidens completely. 

This lovely young maid of Cloghroe. 

At Coachfort. at Dripsey, and Blarney, 

This lovely young maid is admired; 
The bucks, at the Lakes of Killarney, 

With the fame of her beauty are fired. 
Her image, I think, is before me. 

And present wherever I go; 
Sweet, charming young maid, I adore thee. 

Thou beautiful nymph of Cloghroe. 



Now. aid me. ye country grammarians ! 

Your learned assistance 1 claim 
To know the bright name of this fair one^ 

This charming young damsel of fame. 
Two mutes and a liquid united. 

Ingeniously placed in a row, 
Spell part of the name of this phoenli 

The beautiful maid of Cloghroe. 

\ diphthong and three semivowels 

Will give us this cynosure's name — 
This charming Hibernian beauty. 

This lovely, this virtuous young dame. 
Had Jupiter heard of this fair one. 

He'd descend from Olympus. I know. 
To solicit this juvenile phoenix — 

This beautiful maid of Cloghroe. 

ANONYMOUS. 



ST. PATRICK AND CAESAR. 
When Caesar, by conquests unsated. 

On Erin's soft slopes set his eye. 
His troops he debarked, and. elated. 

Strolled forth to a wake as a spy. 
That brawny barbarian, the Briton. 

In Britain he'd beaten anew. 
Then furbished fresh fetters to fit on 

The free-men of Brian Boru. 



He little knew then we were Romans. 

Established ere Rome had been built; 
So he looked on our island as no man's. 

Not caring how many he kilt. 
But first, and before he gave battle. 

He'd heard of the wake, as I've towld. 
So, cutting himself an oak wattle, 
j Sneaked out in the hoighth of the cowld. 

Disgui.sed in a pair of "cord " britches. 

Frieze coat, sturdy brogues, and caubeen. 
He scrambled through hedges and ditches, 
I To where the wake lights could be seen. 
He set out quite fearless and hearty. 

Arrived somewhat soon in the night, 
.•\nd skrewdged himself m ere the party 

Was yet quite prepared for a fight. 

] 

' He laughed, the big thief, and grew frisky, 

\nA drank with a mighty good will. 
1 (He'd never before tasted whisky. 

Or even heerd tell of a " still "J. 



IN BUCKIN-HAM P ALICE. 



541 



King Brian Boru sat and eyed him. 

So also did huge Fin-ma-Cool, 
And a third, in a cloak, with, beside him, 

A crozier propped up by a stool. 

rhey all seemed to relish the liquor, 

(No exciseman near it had been) ; 
The quicker they tippled, the quicker 

They puffed at the fragrant dudheen. 
To Csesar the pipe was extended 

By him with the crozier and cloak. 
But Caesar refused, and, offended. 

Said, " Cities must blaze when I smoke." 

"O, cities? " says 'tother, quite civil ; 

" You'll want a big pipe for that same ; — 
I know ye" — "If so you're the divil," > 

Says Caesar, "so tell me my name." 
" Your name and your fame," says the other, 

" Might both be much safer at home, — 
The bogs of green Erin would smother 

Such haythens as Cssar of Rome." 

Then Caesar jumped up in a hurry. 

And turned for to run to the door, — 
All laughed, for he found, in his flurry, 

His feet fixed like wax to the floor. 
"Who are you.' what ails me? " he muttered, 

" Why, why, should I tremble and faint. 
And quake at the words you have uttered ? 

I fly neither Satan nor Saint ! 

" What are you ? your glances appal me ! " 

The other replied with a smile, 
" Saint Patrick, my countrymen call me. 

The guardian of Erin's green Isle. 
You've ?/t'«/'(/and vidi'd, not vici'd, — 

Embark in your fleet, and when there, 
I'll send you, if you're not too nice-eyed. 

Such live stock as Erin can spare." 

Poor Caesar fell down right afore him. 

And grovelled his length as he lay ; 
Then knelt to the Saint to adore him. 

But Fin-ma-Cool dragged him away. 
He rose, seemed desirous to linger. 

So Brian Boru bade him " Go ! " 
Saint Patrick he lifted his finger, 

\nd Fin-ma-Cool lifted his toe. 

He shot from the spot like a rocket, 
For Fin-ma-Cool kicked with a will ; 

His men on the beach felt the shock, it 
Electrified valley and hill. 



He fell with a thud on the sod, he 
Was " telescoped " in, but they rose. 

First pulling him out of his body. 
And secondly out of his clothes. 

Away Caesar sailed, sore and weary, 

From Brian Boru and his rule, ["skeary," 
From the Saint who had made him feel 

And the big toe of big Fin-ma-Cool. 
Away o'er the billowy Biscay. 

Sea-sickened, soul-saddened, he sped, 
Convulsed with a craving for whisky. 

And braved by his bullies for bread. 

JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 
From '-A New Od; to St. Patrick." 



IN BUCKIN'HAM PALICE. 
I was clanin' the windies 
In Buckingham Palice, 
An' I thought o' the shindies 
O' Russians and Allies, 
Whin into the room, wid a browfull of gloom. 
An' a bottle of goold — it was filled with per- 
fume- 
Held up to her nose — pop ! past m e she goes — 
The queen ! an' I thrembled in undher me 

toes. 
But she didn't perceive I was undher the eave. 
So I thought I'd just watch her awhile, ere I'd 

leave. 
For it struck me as odd that her queenship 
should grieve. 
She flopped in a chair 
Which the flunky put there. 
An' she " pished " an' she " pshawed " wid a 

wanderin' air. 
That was half of it anger an' half was despair; 
An' the great Koh-i-noor, that was fixed on 

her brow, 
Wid the rubies set round it. flashed blood-like 

enow ; 
An' over her soul, in that dark hour of dole, 
The red hand of Care dhrove his merciless 

plow, 
While she thought of her sins an' the big 

Russian row; 
An' the gem on her brow grew too hot to 

retain it 
Whin she tliought of the millions she'd butch- 
ered to gain it ; 
An', through the thick mist that was chokin' 
her eye. 



POEMS OF COMEIi\ 



542 

The ghost of her famine-killed sisther went 

by. 
In Ireland 'twas famine— in India 'twas 

slaughlher. 
An' every where, every where blood ran like 

wather. 



Well, still, while I looked— shure I thought I 

was booked 
To that place where there's nothin" but kan- 
garoos cooked. 
For an old man came in — he was ugly as sin. 
Wid the dismalest grin round his fat double 

chin ; 
An' he tucked up his coat-tails an' backed to 

the fire. 
An' he looked at the queen half in pity, half 

ire ; 
An' she rocked in her chair, an' she tapped 

wid her toes 
On the carpet of velvet that blushed like a rose, 
An' she didn't seem plaised with the double- 
chinned man. 
But he talked quite familiar, and thus his 
words ran . 
" Good-day. my Queen Vic, 
Have you sutTered a thrick? 
For you're lookin' by no means good-nay- 
chured or slick. 
Now tell me what's wrong," sez he ; 
" Don't keep me long." sez he, 
'■ For I'm dhry. an' I think 
That I'd much like a dhrink. 
" Take your time, my ould brick," sez she ; 
" Don't be so quick," sez she ; 
" An' I'll make a clane breast, for my throubles 

is thick," sez she ; 
" I ordhered the pick of my sojers to lick, 
Bate, wallop, an" kick that ould thievin' rogue 

Nick; 
I thought he'd cut stick whin he heard the 

first click 
Of my bombs, an' my rifles, an' other such 

thrifles ; 
But he didn't do it, an' I'm like to rue it. 
An' God knowsat all how I'll ever get through 



" Shure to fear I began 
That they'd ax my ould man — 
He's field-marshal, they say," sez she, 
•• An' I know he's dhrawn pay," sez she, 
" This many a day," sez she. 
An' he made a new hat from the skin of a cat, 



An' I've heerd. an", indeed, even Punch owns 

to that. 
That the hat bids defiance to milithary science 
To pass or to peer it. or even come near it. 
In the way of a shed," sez she, " for a sojer's 
head, " sez she : 
" But he's tendher an' weakly," sez she, 
•• An' of late somewhat sickly," sez she, 
" Wid a bad rhumatiz," sez she, 
" In that sword-arm of his, " sez she. 
•' He tuk ill the first night that we heerd of 

the fight : 
An', since Inkermann," sez she, " no mortal 

can," sez she, 
" Describe what he feels from his head to his 

heels : 
He's shiv'rin an' shakin', an' his bones they 

are achin". 
An' he's thremblin' an' sore to his very heart's 

core. 
An' he 'sworn out intirely, an' worried, what's 
more. 
He's a soldier thrue." sez she, 
" An' at Chopham Review," sez she, 
" I seen him to do," sez she, 
" Things to make you look blue," sez she, 
" An' he's ravin' quite, by day and by night. 
To be into the fight, as is proper an' right ; 
An' he swears that he'd kill," sez she — 
" If it worn't for the accident that he happens 

to be ill," sez she— 
"Ould Mentschikoff an' the Prince Pop-em- 

off, 
Liprandi, an' Luders, an' Count Orloff ; 
But he says he can't think of it until he cures 

his cough. 
Och! his pains is cruel; he's as wake as 

wather gruel ; 
An' should any wan hint — in speeches or 
print— [sez she. 

That the man who does quarthcrly dhraw," 
•• In accordions wid milithary law," sez she, 
•• The highest pay 
Should take part in the fray, 
Och I he'd faint away 
From the blessed light of day! 
Me poor Albert ud fall, rowled up in a ball. 
An' I know widows' caps don't become me at 
all." 

" Well, now, Mrs. Vic."— 

An' his eye had a thrick 
As cunnin' an' knowin' as a cat's that is goin", 
When the cook's asleep, wid the softest creep, 





'^ 



r/. 



^ j^'//^A-^ ^ -'- 



AN IMITATION OF SCOTT. 



543 



To lick fresh butther— " if you'll let me, I'll 
utther 

Some good advice," sez he, "an' think over 
it twice," sez he. 
" Go an' make your ould man," sez he, 
"Just as soon as he can," sez he, 
" Cure the rheumatiz," sez he, 
" In that sword-arm of his," sez he, 
" Or he'd betther resign," sez he, 
" His uniform fine," sez he, 
" An' fall out o' the line," sez he. 

" Och ! but. thin, the pay.' " sez she, 
" It 'ud go asthray," sez she, [sez she. 

" An' that's not at all afther Albert's way," 
" Resign that too," sez he, 
" For, betune me an' you," sez he, 
" Whin the people see," sez he, 
" (Betune you an' me)." sez he, [partial 

" Their gallant field-marshal to rheumatiz 
Whin colors are flyin', an' thousands are dyin' 
For a shillin' a day round Sevastopol's Bay, 
They'll begin to compare the sick gentleman's 

pay 
Wid the throoper's who dashed through the 

thick of the fray, 
Where bulletswerewhizzin' an' sabres did play 
On casque an' cuirass, an' the min fell like grass. 
While the field-marshal — Balaam-like — sat 

on his ass. 
An' prayed for the foes he was bound to oppose 
From thetopof his head to the root of his toes. 
Let him give up his place wid whateverof grace 
Can be possibly lint to so dirty a case. 
Or the very ould wimin will spit in his face. 
An' the childher, God bless 'em! throw dirt 

at his grace. 
Inniskillin's an' Grays, Irish Lancers an' 

Bays- 
Whatever poor wreck of them's left in these 

days — 
The men, not of rank, who dhrove spurs in 

the flank 
Of their chargers, an' dashed up the cannon- 
plowed bank. 
While the grape an' cross-fire mowed them 

down rank by rank ; 
Never haltin', though reelin', but formin' an' 

wheelin' 
Again and again, wid diminishin' min. 
While the pulks of the Cossackry crowded the 

glin. 
No end to their labors, — no rest for their 

sabres — 



Blood-spatthered, they could not be known 

by their neighbors. 
An' still by sheer steel, strength of hand, heart, 

an' heel. 
Though shatthered, disordhered, invincible 

still. 
Through a long line of fire, through a laygion 

of foes — 
Grimly forced to retire — the Light Cavalry 

goes. 
They've left, an' what thin.'— just three- 
fourths of their min 
To fat the next harvest in Inkerman's glin; 
But the colors they bore, though bedabbled 

wid gore. 
Still wave o'er the rimnant returnin' once 

more. 
What a sight there will be should they ever 

come back, 
An' the field-marshal — partial to a timely 

attack 
Of the rheumatic fayver — should fall in their 

thrack !" 

What more there was said, 

Shure, no more nor the dead 

Do I know, for I chanced to lane forward my 

head. 
An' the queen gave a scrame, and the man 

gave a start. 
An' I thought it was best for meself to depart. 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
Deptcly C/azier's Room, Buckin' ham Police, 
London, December ^tli, 1S54. 



AN IMITATION OF SCOTT. 
The hounds in the kennel are yelling loud, 

The hawks are boune for flight; 
For the sun hath burst from his eastern shroud. 
And the sky is clear, without a cloud, 

And the steed for the chase is dight: 
The merry huntsmen, up in the morn. 
Crack the long whip, and wind the horn. 

Lord Timothy rubbed his eyes, and rose 
When he heard the merry crew ; 

He scarce took space to don his clothes. 
And his night-cap quick he threw 

Back on the pillow, and down the staic 

Disdaining brush or comb for hair. 
With lightning speed he flew ; 

And in the twinkling of a fan. 



544 



With frock and cap the gallant man. 
Caparisoned all spick and span. 

Was with the waiting crew. 
Sir Abraham rode his bonny gray ; 

Sir Anthony his black ; 
Lord Hector has mounted his sprightly bay ; 
Lord Tom, Lord Jack, and all are away ; 
Curvet, and demivolte. and neigh. 
Mark out their bold and brisk array. 
With buckskins bright and bonnets gay. 

And bugles at each back. 

They had hardly ridden a mile, a mile. 
A mile but barely ten. 

And each after each they leaped a stile. 

When their hearts went pit-a-pat the while. 
To see a troop of armed men, 
I A troop of gallant men at drill. 
t With well soap'd locks and s'iffen'd frill ; 

Each in his grasp held spear or sword. 

Ready to murder at a word. 
I And ghastly was each warrior's smile 
I Beneath his barred aventayle ; 
I Buff belts were girt around each waist, 
I Steel cuisses round each thigh were braced ; 
I Around each knee were brazen buckles. 
I And iron greaves to save their knuckles; 
( High o'er each tin-bright helmet shone 
! The casque and dancing morion. 
I Which reached to where the tailor sets 
; On shoulder woolen epaulets ; 
I Their blades were of Toledo steel. 
; Ferrara or Damascus real ; 

Yea, human eye did never see. 
Through all the days of chivalry, 
I Men more bedight from head to heel. etc. 

I Lady Alice she sits in the turret tower. 

I A-combing her raven hair; 

I The clock hath tolled the vesper hour, 

I Already the shades of evening lower 
To veil the landscape fair. 
To the jetty fringe of her piercing eye 

She raised her opera-glass. 
For she was anxious to espy 

If her worthy knight should pass. 
•' Lo! yonder he comes. " she sighed and said. 
Then with a rueful shake of head,— 
•' Shall I my husband ne'er discover.' — 
'Tis but the white cow eating clover!" 
She looked again. " Sure yon is he 

I That gallops so fast along the lea ! 

j Alas, 'tis only a chestnut tree ! 

I Standing as still as still can be 1 1 ! 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Come hither, come hither, my little foot pa^i 

And dance, my anguish to assuage • 

And be it jig. or waltz, or reel. 

I care not. so it doth conceal 

The ghosts that of a thousand dyes 

Float evermore before mine eyes; 

And \. to make thee foot it gay. 

With nimble finger, by my fay. 

Upon the tambourine will play !" etc. 

WILLIAM MAGINN. 



AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG.* 
Brocades and damasks, and tabbies, and 
gauzes. 
Are. by Robert Ballantine. lately brought 
over. 
With forty things more:— now hear what the 
law says. 
Whoe'er will not wear them is not the 
King's lover. 
Though a printer and Dean 
Seditiously mean 
Our true Irish hearts from old England to 

wean ; 
But we'll buy English silks for our wives and 

our daughters 
In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
Waters. 

In England the dead in woolen are clad. 
The Dean and his printer then let us cr\ 
fie on ; 
To be clothed like a carcass would make a 
Teague mad. 
Since a living dog better is than a dead lioa 
Our wives they grow sullen 
At wearing of woollen. 
And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns 

pull in. 
Then we'll buy English silks for our wivesand 

our daughters. 
In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
Waters. 

Whoever our trading with England would 

hinder. 
To inflame both the nations do plainly 

conspire. 
Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder. 



• This ballad alludes to Swift's " Proposal tor the ui 
Irish Manufactures." for which Waters, the printer, was \ 
ecuted with great violence.— 5(-o//. 



A SAILOK'S VAJiN. 



545 



'■ Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand. 

And the sextant falls so low. 
It's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones 

This night are bound to go ! 



And wool it isgreasy, and quickly takes fire. 

Therefore, I assure ye. 

Our noble grand jury. 

When they saw the Dean's book, they were | 

in a great fury ; 
They would buy English silk for their wives ; " Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake ! 

and their daughters, i And reef the spanker boom ; 

In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman ; Bend a studding sail on the niartingal 
Waters. ' To give her weather room. 



This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sin- 
ning, 
And before coram nobis so oft has been 
called, 
Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets 
nor linen — 
And if swearing can do't, shall be swing- 
ingly maul'd ; 

And as for the Dean, 
You know whom I mean. 
If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come 

off clean. 
Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and 

our daughters. 
In spite of his Deanship and Journeyman 
Waters. 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 



"O boatswain, down in the for'ard hold. 
What water do you find.'" 

" Four foot and a half by the royal gaff. 
And rather more behind." 

" O sailors, collar your marline spikes 
And each belaying pin ; 

Come, stir your stumps, and spike the pumps. 
Or more will be coming in !" 

They stirred their stumps, they spiked the 
pumps. 

They spliced the mizzen brace; 
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh ! 

The water gained apace. 

They bored a hole above the keel 
To let the water out ; 

But. strange to say, to their dismay, 
The water in did spout. 

Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship, 
And he was a lubber brave : 

" I have several wives in various ports. 
And my life I orter save." 

Then up spoke the Captain of Marines 

Who dearly loved his prog : 
■• It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry. 

And I move we pipes to grog." 
j 
'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck. Oh, then 'twas the noble second mate 

To his mate in the mizzen hatch. | What filled them all with awe: 

While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, The second mate, as bad men hate, 
'vVas wmding his larboard watch. : And cruel skippers jaw. 

•■ Oh, how does our good ship head to-night .' j He took the anchor on his back 
How heads our gallant craft .'" i And leaped into the main ; 

'■ Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., i Through foam and spray he clove his way, 

.\nd the binnacle lies abaft I" And sunk and rose again ! 

" Oh, what does the quadrant indicate, ; Through foam and spray, a league away 

And how does the sextant stand .'' The anchor stout he bore ; 

" Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point, i Till safe at last, he made it fast 
And the quadrant's lost a han '. 1" | And warped the ship ashore. 



A SAILOR'S YARN. 
This is the tale that was told to me, 
By a battered and shattered son of the sea- 
To me and my messmate, Silas Green, 
When I was a guileless 5roung marine : — 

Twas the good ship Gyascutus, 

.\1I m the China seas. 
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free 

To catch the summer breeze. 



546 



/'OE-UM OF COMEDY. 



'Tain't much of a job to talk about. 

But a ticklish thing to see, 
And sulh'in to do, if 1 say it, too, 

For that second mate was me ! 



Such was the tale that was told to me 
By that modest and truthful son of the sea. 
And I envy the life of a second mate. 
Though captains curse him and sailors hate. 
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen. 
As would go and lie to a poor marine. 

JAMKS JEFFREY ROCHE. 

A REVERIE. 
T/ii- liaril apostrophizeth a Skclfloii. 
Old friend, I rattle your lank phalanges. 

Forget my lapses of heart and pen ; 
May some one duck me in Nile or Ganges 

If e'er I wander from you again. 
Before you judge me, dear Phos., remember 

You once had feeling as well as I ; 
And man. like nature, ere wise December 

Must glow and ripen in fierce July. 
In youthful summer, with visions glorious, 

Through flow'ry valleys we dance along. 
And dream that ever, as now, victorious. 

The soul shall triumph in love and song. 
The shadows gather; the autumn's sober — 

V.^X adumbration is o'er us cast : 
.And love and glory in chill October 

Like dead leaves wither in sorrow's blast. 
But while I sadly all this am thinking, 

I twig a wrinkle '.if)onyour phiz; [ing. 

IVhy. blessmc ! hang me ! man, don't be wink- 

And stopyour grinning, you toothless quiz ! 
They reared me badly. I'll make my offspring 

(That's when I get them, of course, I mean) 
From Homer, Euclid, Moliere and Gough 
spring— 

Thev only dye one absurdly green. 
Ami Snccreth at Terpsichore. 
But makes them. Jingo! unrivalled dancers; 

I lost the fairest of maidens once. 
Because I knew not those blasted " Lancers," 

And waltzing always affects my sconce. 
Alas! if •' ihux tfiiips" might yet redeem her. 

By all that's dizzy, I dare not trj-. 
Because 'twould fracture, I'm sure, my J cm sir. 

And let off fireworks from either eye ; 
And I'm so dismal at rout and revel. 

So ver>' gloomy at screech and ball. 
My hugest wonder is why the devil 

They e\er ask me to go at all. 



That folk should wildly, in latest fashions. 

From Belle AssembUe or else Album, 
Thus write and gyrate, of human passions 

To me seemed ever by far most rum. 
Through waltz and polka to trampand wriggle. 

For sober student is fearful doom — 

To fall, while round you they grin and giggle — 

Tripped, dodged, and badgered about the 

.\s I'm a poet, it is my duty [room. 

To smoke until I become sublime [beauty) 

(Whene'er my harp-string is touched for 

The best of fibrine and salts of lime ; 
.And so, defying the highest prices, 

I pop a lancet and puff cigars, 
(Through twist in common the Muse suffices,) 

Until, like Horace. " 1 touch the stars." 
To " cap the climax " of botheration, [(liar)— 
Being "strictly moral," I played the lyre 
I raved of "scorching infuriation." 

And Hecla-zEtna-Vesuvian ire. 
The calculus, I calculated. 

Was very likely her heart to win, 
" Ethereally." if " sublimated " [and thin. 

With steam and " fluxions " through thick 
I said—" Dear maid, you resemble vastly 

A lighthouse decking some mountain brow. 
Round which the billows in ' orgies ghastly ' 

Kick up an everlasting row." 
With stars I stuffed my speech, and with Mick 

Scott, the wizard, all in a breath— 
I plunged in labyrinths logarithmic. 

And rode poor Newton almost to death. 
.\nd when I asked her for life to take me. 

And she, dear creature, my wa)'sand means, 
I said the Iron Archduke would make me 

Assistant-surgeon to the Horse Marines; 
And how affected to see me— very !— 

Was that dear kinsman, the Iron Duke, 
Who gave me, weeping, ttncttira fcrri, 

A sword, and fastened it with a hook. 
I mystified her on conic sections. 

"Fog-horns." and diving, and battlements, 
" Lay pontiffs." brandy, and Clare elections, 
I And " gorgeous ethic experiments." 
(Finale.) 
We'll drop the subject— 1 hate long stories, 
j Onions, spiders, and " nice " young men — 
1 I hate the English, both Whigs and Tories — 
i Suffice, we never shall meet again. 
And so, old fellow, another Winter 

We'll work together in prose and rhyme. 
Unless a scalpel, or awkward splinter. 
Or fever, floor me before my time. 

RICH.\Kl) UALTON WILLIAMS. 



THE LOGICIAXS REFUTED. 



547 



MALBROUCK. 
Malbrouck, the prince of commanders, 
Is gone to the war in Flanders; 
His fame is like Alexander's; 

But when will he come home ? 
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 
Perhaps he may come at Easter, 
Egad ! he'd better make haste, or 

We fear he may never come. 

For Trinity Feast is over 

And has brought no news from Dover; 

And Easter is past, moreover ; 

And Malbrouck stil! delays. 
Milady in her watch-tower 
Spends many a pensive hour. 
Not well knowing why or how her 

Dear lord from England stays. 

While sitting quite forlorn in 
That tower she spies returning 
A page clad in deep mourning. 

With fainting steps and slow. 
" O page, prithee come faster ; 
What news do you bring of your master: 
I fear there is some disaster. 

Your looks are so full of woe." 

" The news I bring, fair lady," 
With sorrowful accents said he, 
'• Is one )'ou are not ready 

So soon, alas ! to hear ; 
But since to speak I'm hurried," 
Added this page, quite flurried. 
" Malbrouck is dead and buried !" 

(And here he shed a tear.) 

" He's dead, he's dead as a herring ! 



For I beheld his ' berri 



ng. 



And four officers transferring 

His corpse away from the field. 
One officer carried his sabre. 
And he carried it not without labor. 
Much envying his next neighbor. 
Who only bore a shield. 

" The third was a helmet bearer — 
That helmet which on its wearer 
Filled all who saw with terror. 

And covered a hero's brains. 
Now, having got so far, I 
Find that (by the. Lord Harry !) 
The fourth's left with nothing to carry. 

So there the thing remains." 

FRAN'CLS S. MAHONV. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 
In Imitation of Dean Si.'ift. 
Logicians have but ill-defined 
As rational the human mind ; 
Reason, they say, belongs to man. 
But let them prove it if they can. 
Wise Aristotle and Simiglesius, 
By ratiocinations specious. 
Have strove to prove v^ith great precision. 
With definition and division. 
Homo est ratione preditum ; 
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em. 
And must in spite of them maintain, 
That man and all his ways are vain ; 
And that this boasted lord of nature 
Is both a weak and erring creature. 
That instinct is a surer guide. 
Than reason, boasting mortal's pride ; 
And that brute beasts are far before 'em, 
Deits es anima brutorum. 
Whoever knew an honest brute 
At law his neighbor prosecute. 
Bring action for assault and battery 
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery.' 
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd. 
No politics disturb the mind ; 
They eat their meals, and take their sport. 
Nor know who's in or out at court ; 
They never to the levee go 
To treat as dearest friend, a foe ; 
They never importune his Grace, 
Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
Nor undertake a dirty job, 
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob ; 
Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
To folks at Pater-Noster Row : 
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters. 
No pickpockets, or poetasters. 
Are known to honest quadrupeds. 
No single brute his fellows leads. 
Brutes never meet in bloody fray. 
Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
Of beasts it. is confessed, the ape 
Comes nearest us in human shape. 
I Like man he imitates each fashion. 
And malice is his ruling passion ; 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
L'pon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
.\nd to perform takes equal care. 



548 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



He in his turn finds imitators. 
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters. 
Their masters' manners still contract, 
And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
Thus at the court both great and small 
Behave alike, for all ape all. 

OLIVER OOLUSMITH 



A MEDICAL STUDENT'S LETTER. 

'• If you'd go fi»r to think for to dare for to try for to beat mc 

al lyrics. 
Man would fall down with the laughing, and woman go off 

in hysterics." 

In vain alchemic hieroglyphs to charm me 
now. whereas I hum 1 

Love-songs all day. and look as pale as oxide j 
of potassium. 

Oh! did I own. far, far away, some spicy and 
tobaccoed isle, 

I'd smoke and sigh the livelong day, and I 
curse the salts of kakodyU, 

With sulphtireUeii hydrogen, ammonia, and i 
katium. 

And sit most sentimentally in bufTo. and 
Haynes Bailey hum. 

I cause among the Burschen all considerable 
merriment. 

By swallowing the alcohol intended for exper- 
iment ; 

.And from the grave professors, too, incur 
enormous odium. 

For once, instead of tea, I filled their pot with 
salt of sodium ; 

The world guffaws, not without cause, to see 
me quite dejected thus — i 

My languages forgotten, and my sciences ■ 
neglected thus. i 

The old may scold, the young give tongue. 
fall flat the fat. and laugh the lean. 

To see me spill \\\e. glyceryl, and fill my pipe | 
with naphthaline. 

Contract four flexors, lovely Frau, and take 
me to your pectorals^ 

A doctor skilled to kill or cure and readily 
detect your ills. 

Oh ! think of what a treasure in pertussis or 
sciatica. 

In catalepsy, mullygrubs. or fades hypocratica. 

Beware, my fair, or hear me swear, by Ahri- 
man, that if you're stiff. 

Your acid frown shall, slap bang down, preci- 
pitate me o'er a cliff. 

Farewell, then, dear companions, and fare- 
well, cen<e deorum. 



Where we Ulk'd lie rebus omnibus, with nota 

variorum. 
But always perorated with a scientific jorum. 
We supped on theobromine, and perhaps at 

times we quaffed a late 
Crucible of alcohol disputing of a naphthalate. 
Till our noses glowed like cinnabar, and many 

a yellow rum bum. 
Per, hot and cold, flowed on like gold, or io- 
dine of plumbum ; 
Retorts sublime, we slaked our lime, until the 

morning star. boys. 
Beheld us fall, with beakers all. and roll among 

the carboys. 
But now a very absent man. I've scarcely got 

a word to say. 
Or, if to show my teeth at all, 'tis something 

most absurd to say ; 
And even at the opera, among the gods and 

top-row lights, 
I ruminate on behemoths and chew the cud 

on coprolites. 
And shall I in suspension hang, to glorify 

thee, eh .' Nay, 
Nor in the meerschaum plunge by way of bol- 

neum arena'. 
We arc not isomorphous in our souls, tnou 

fair deceiver. 
And I to coquetry's retort decline to play 

receiver ; 
Nor would my heart amalgamate to that of a 

divinity 
Who could not cling to mine with more than 

chemical affinity. 
No, fuse me in a furnace blast ! I'll sing that 

Celtic air first. 
•• Go to the d— 1 and shake yourself," to banish 

my despair first. 
For what's a queen in diamonds, with her 

coronation garb on. [carbon f 

But calcium and phosphorus, hwmatosine and 
I'll take unto mc crucibles and capsules, tubes 

and funnels. 
.And pour down mine a;sophagus rich German 

wine in runnels; 
And though my frozen Fraulein like to Aph- 
rodite wore a form. 
'Twill act upon my occiput like ether or like 

chloroform ; 
And ever on my optics shall the vision of that 

maiden jar. 
Erewhile that thrilled me with a shock more 

powerful than a Leyden jar. 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



1 

A THRENODY. 545 


A LETTER TO SWIFT. 


A man come now from Ouilca says 


You will excuse me, I suppose, 


■' Thc/ve* stolen the locks from all your keys ;" 


For sending rhyme instead of prose ; 
Because hot weather makes me lazy, 


But what must fret and vex me more, 


He says, " They stole the keys before." 


To write in metre is more easy. 


" They've stolen the knives from all the forks, 




And half the cows from half the sturks." 




Nay more, the fellow swears and vows. 


While you are trudging London town, 


" They've stolen the sturks from half the 


I'm strolling Dublin up and down ; 


cows ; " 


While you converse with lords and dukes. 


With many more accounts of woe : 


have their betters here— my books : 


Yet, though the devil be there I'll go. 


Fixed in an elbow-chair at ease. 


'Twixt you and me, the reason's clear — 


I choose companions as I please. 


Because I've more vexation here. 


I'd rather have ore single shelf 


THOMAS .SHERIDAN. 


Than all my friends, e.xcept yourself; 
For after all that can be said. 




■ 


Our best acquaintance are the dead. 


A THRENODY. 


While you're in raptures with Faustina, 


" The Akhoojid of Swat is Dead''— 
What, what, what. 


I'm charmed at home with your Sheelina; 


While you are starving there in state. 


What's the news from Swat .' 


I'm cramming here with butcher's meat. 


Sad news, bad news, 


You say, when with those lords you dine. 


Cometh by the cable led 
Thro' the Indian Ocean's bed. 


They treat you with the best of wine- 


Burgundy, Cyprus and Tokay, — 


Thro' the Persian Gulf, the Red 


Why so can we as well as they. 


Sea and the Med- 


No reason, then, my dear good Dean, 


iterranean — he's dead. 


But you should travel home again. 


The Akhoond is dead ! 


What tho' you mayn't in Ireland hope 




To find such folk as Gay and Pope. 


For the Akhoond I mourn. 


If you with rhymers here would share 


Who wouldn't.' 


But half the wit that you can spare. 


He strove to disregard the message stern, 


I'd lay twelve eggs that in twelve days 


But he Akhoond 't. 


You'd make a dozen Popes and Gays. 






Dead, dead, dead! 




(Sorrow, Swats !) 


Our weather's good, our skies are clear ; 


Swats wha hae wi Akhoond bled, 


We've every joy, if you were here ; 


Swats wham he hath often led 


So lofty and so bright a sky 


Onward to a gory bed. 


Was never seen by Ireland's eye ! 


Or to victory, 


I think it fit to let you know 


As the case might be— 


This week I shall to Ouilca go, 


Sorrow, Swats ! 


To see, alas, my withered trees ! 


Tears shed. 


To see what all the country' sees : 


Shed tears like water. 


My stunted quicks, my famished beeves, 


Your great Akhoond is dead ! 


My servants such a pack of thieves ; 


That's Swat's the matter ! 


My shattered firs, my blasted oaks, 




My house in common to all folks; 


Mourn, City of Swat, 


No cabbage for a single snail ; 


Your great Akhoond is not. 


My turnips, carrots, parsnips fail ; 


But laid 'mid worms to rot — 


My no green peas, ray few green sprouts ; 


His mortal part alone— his soul was caught 


My mother alwaj's in the pouts ; 


(Because he was a good Akhoond !) 


My horses rid, or gone astray. 


LTp to the bosom of Mahound. 


My fish all stolen, or run away ; 


Tho earthly walls his frame surround 


My mutton lean, my pullets old. 


(Forever hallowed be the ground !) 


My poultry starved, the corn all sold. 


* Th.-y is the grand thief of the p.irt of Ireland referred to 



550 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



And skeptics mock the lowly mound. 

And says " He's now of no Akhoond/' 
His soul is in the skies— 

The azure skies that bend above hi": loved me- 
tro|K)lis of Swat. ' 
He sees with larger, other eyes, 
Athwart all earthly mysteries — 

He knows what's Swat. 



Let Swat bury the great Akhoond 

With a noise of mourning and lamentation! 
Let Swat bury the great Akhoond 
With the noise of the mourning of the 
Swattish nation ! 
Fallen is at length 
Its tower of strength, 
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; 
Dead lies the great Akhoond I 
The great Akhoond of Swat 
Is not 1 

GKOKGE T. l.ANIGAN. 



The moral of this tale is proper. 
Applied to Wood's adulterate copper: 
Which as he scattered, we, like dolts. 
Mistook at first for thunderbolts. 
Before the Drapier shot a letter, 
(Nor Jove himself could do it better). 
Which lighting on the impostor's crown. 
Like real thunder knock'd him down. 

JO.S'ATHAN swii 



ON WOOD THE IRONMONGER. 
Salmoneus, as the Grecian tale is, 
Was a mad copf)ersmith of Elis: 
Up at his forge by morning peep. 
No creature in the lane could sleep ; 
Among a crew of roystering fellows 
Would sit whole evenings at the ale-house; 
His wife and children wanted bread. 
While he went always drunk to bed. 
This vaporing scab must needs devise 
To ape the thunder of the skies : 
With brass two fiery steeds he shod, 
To make a clattering as they trod, 
Of polish'd brass his flaming car 
Like lightning dazzled from afar; 

Then furious he begins his march. 
Drives rattling o'er a brazen arch ; 
With squibs and crackers arm'd to throw 
Among the trembling crowd below. 
All ran to prayers, both priests and laity. 
To pacify this angry deity ; 
When Jove, in pity to the town. 
With real thunder knock'd him down. 
Then what a huge delight were all in 
To see the wicked varlet sprawling; 
They search'd his pockets on the place, 
And found his copper all was base ; 
They laugh'd at such an Irish blunder. 
To take the noise of brass for thunder. 



EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. 
Sweet upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace 
sojourned 

This priest devout. 
Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep 
inurned 

The bones of Prout ! 
Nor deck with monumental shrine, orta(>cring 
column. 

His place of rest. 
Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek, yet 
solemn, 

Sits 'mid the blest. 
Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern 
rebuke 

O'erawed sheep-stealers ; 
And rogues feared more the good man's single 
look 

Than forty peelers. 
He's gone, and discord soon. I ween, will visit 

The land with quarrels; 
And the foul demon vex with stills illicit 

The village morals. 
No fatal chance could happen more to cross 

The public wishes ; 
And all the neighborhood deplore his loss. 

Except the fishes ; 
For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled 
herring 

Preferred to gammon , 
Grim death has broke his angling rod ; his 
" herring " 

Delights the salmon. 
No more can he hook up carp, eel or trout. 
For fasting pittance, — 
.•\rts which St. Peter loved, whose gates to 
Prout 

Gave prompt admittance. 
Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep 

His sainted dust ; 
The bad man's death it well becomes to 
weep, — 

Not so the just. 

FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



50 



BERANGER'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
Paris! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris! 
haunt of despair ! 
There befell on thy bosom one day an occur- 
rence most weighty, 
At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under 
whose care 
I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seven- 
teen hundred and eighty. 
By no token, 'tis true, did my cradle announce 
a young Horace, 
And the omens were such as might well lead 
astray the unwary ; 
But with utter amazement one morning my 
grandfather Maurice, 
Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the 
arms of a fairy ! 
And this fairy so handsome 
Assumed an appearance so striking. 
And for me seemed to take such a liking. 
That he knew not what gift he should ofTer 
the dame for i 



Had he previously studied thy " Legends," O 
rare Crofty Croker,* 
He'd have learnt how to act from thy pages 
('tis there that the charm is !) 
But my guardian's first impulse was rather to 
look for the poker, 
To rescue his beautiful boy from her hand 
7'/ ef ar/itis. 
\ et he paused in his plan and adopted a 
milder suggestion, 
For her attitude calm and unterrified made 
him respect her. 
So bethought it was best to be civil, and fairly 
to question, 
Concerning my prospects in life, the benevo- 
lent spectre. 
And the fairy, prophetical. 
Read my destiny's book m a minute. 
With all the particulars in it; 
And its outline she drew with exactitude most 
geometrical. 

•• His career shall be mingled with pleasure, 
tho' checkered with pain. 
And some bright sunny hours shall succeed 
o a rigorous winter : 
See him first a gar^on at a hostelry — then, 
with disdain 
See him spurn that vile craft and apprentice 
himself to a printer. 

of the " Fairy Legends 



As a poor university clerk view him next at 
his desk; 
Mark that flash ! — he will have a most nar- 
row escape from the lightning: — 
But behold after sundry adventures, some 
bold, some grotesque, 
The horizon clears up, and his prospects 
appear to be bright'ning." 
And the fairy, caressing 
The infant, foretold that ere long 
He would warble unrivalled in song ; 
All France in the homage which Paris had 
paid acquiescing. 

" Yes, the muse has adopted the boy ! On his 
brow see the laurel ! 
In his hand 'tis Anacreon's cup ! — with the 
Greek he has drank it. 
Mark the high-minded tone of his songs, and 
their exquisite moral. 
Giving joy to the cottage, and height'ning 
the blaze of the banquet. 
Now the future grows dark ! — see the spectacle 
France has become ! 
Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, 
undaunted and proud, 
To the public complain*, shall give utterance : 
slaves may be dumb, 
But he'll ring in the hearing of tyrants 
defiance aloud !" 
And the fair)' addressing 
My grandfather, somewhat astonished, 
j So mildly my guardian admonished. 

That he wept while he vanislied away with a 
smile and a blessing. 

FKANCLS S. MAHONY. 
Adapted from Bcrangc: 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song. 
And if you find it wondrous short. 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 
Of whom the world might say. 

That still a godly race he ran. 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

.\ kind and gentle heart he had. 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 



552 



POEAf6 OF COMEDY. 



And in that town a d<^ was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 



But now her wealth and finery fled. 

Her hangers on cut short all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead, 

Her last disorder mortal. 



This dog and man at first were friends ! 

But when a pique began. 
The dog. to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wiis. 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 
That show'd the rogues they lied. 

The man recovered of the bite. 
The dog it was that died. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Let us lament in sorrow sore. 
For Kent Street well may say. 

That had she liv"d a twelvemonth more- 
She had not died to-day. 

OLIVKR UOLDSMITH. 



ELEGY ON MRS. MARY BLAIZE 
Good people all. with one accord. 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise, 

The needy seldom passd her door. 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor,- 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please. 
With manners wondrous winning, 

And never follow'd wicked ways, — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

.\t church, in silks and satins new. 
With hoop of monstrous size ; 

She never slumber'd in her pew,- 
lUit when she shut her eyes. 

Her lo\e was sought, I do aver. 
By twenty beaux and more; 

The king himself has follow"d her.— 
When she has walk'd before. 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 

The time is not remote when I 
Must, in the course of nature, die ; 
When. 1 foresee, my special friends 
Will try to find their private ends. 
And. though 'tis hardly understocxl 
Which way my death can do them good. 
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: 
•' See how the Dean begins to break I 
Poor gentleman, he droops apace I 
You fairly find it in his face. 
That old vertigo in his head 
Will never leave him till he's dead. 
Besides, his memory decays ; 
He recollects not what he says : 
He cannot call his friends to mind : 
Forgets the place where last he dined ; 
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er — 
He told them fifty times before. 
How does he fancy we can sit 
To hear his out-of-fashion wit.' 
But he takes up with younger folks. 
Who for his wine will bear his jokes. 
Faith I he must make his stories shorter. 
Or change his comrades once a quaiter ; 
In half the time he talks them round 
There must another set be found. 
For poetry he's past his prime; 
He takes an hour to find a rhyme. 
His fire is out, his wit decayed. 
His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. 
I'd have him throw away his pen. 
But there's no talking to some men.' 

And then their tenderness appears 

By adding largely to my years; 

" He's older than he would be reckoned, 

And well remembers Charles the Second. 

He hardly drinks a port of wine. 

And that, I doubt, is no good si^;ii. 

His stomach, loo. begins to fail ; 



ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT. 



553 



Last year we thought him strong and hale, 

But now he's quite another thing ; 

I wish he may hold out till spring." 

They hug themselves and reason thus: 

•• It is not yet so bad with us I" 

In such a case they talk in tropes, 

And by their fears express their hopes. 

Some great misfortune to portend. 

No enemy can match a friend. 

With all the kindness they profess, 

The merit of a lucky guess 

(When daily how-d'ye's come of course. 

And servants answer, "Worse and worse I") 

Would please them better than to tell 

That "God be praised, the Dean is well." 

Then he who prophesied the best 

Approves his foresight to the rest : 

" You know I always feared the worst, 

And often told you so at first." 

He'd rather choose that I should die 

Than his prediction prove a lie. 

Not one foretells I shall recover. 

But all agree to give me over. 

Yet should some neighbor feel a pain 

lust in the parts where I complain. 

How many a message would he send ! 

With hearty prayers that I should mend! 

Enquire what regimen I kept. 

What gave me ease, and how I slept. 

And more lament when I was dead. 

Than all the snivellers round my bed. 

My good companions, never fear ; 

For though you may mistake a year, 

Tho' your prognostics run too fast. 

They must be verified at last. 

Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
" How is the Dean ?" " He's just alive." 
Now the departing prayer is read ; 
" He hardly breathes." "The Dean is dead !' 
Before the passing bell begun 
The news through half the town is run, 
" Oh ! may we all for death prepare. 
What has he left.' and who's his heir? " 
" I know no more than what the news is ; 
Tis all bequeathed to public uses." 
" To public uses! There's a whim ! 
What had the public done for him ? 
Mere envy, avarice and pride! 
He gave it all — but first he died. 
And had the Dean in all the nation 
No worthy friend, no poor relation? 
So ready to do strangers good. 
Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" 



Suppose me dead, and then suppose 
A club assembled at the Rose, 
Where, from discourse of this and that, 
I grow the subject of their chat ; 
And while they toss my name about. 
With favor some, and some without. 
One quite indifferent in the cause 
My character impartial draws : 
" The Dean, if we believe report. 
Was never ill-received at court. 
As for his works in verse and prose, 
I own myself no judge of those. 
Nor can I tell wliat critics thought 'em; 
But this I know, all people bought 'em. 
As with a moral view design 'd 
To cure the vices of mankind. 
His vein, ironically grave, 
Expos'd the fool and lash'd the knave. 
To steal a hint was never known. 
But what he writ was all his own. 
He never thought an honor done him 
Because a duke was proud to own him ; 
Would rather slip aside and choose 
To talk with wits in dirty shoes; 
Despised the fool with stars and garters 
So often seen caressing Chartres. 
He never courted men in station ; 
No persons held in admiration ; 
Of no man's greatness was afraid. 
Because he sought for no man's aid. 
Though trusted long in great affairs. 
He gave himself no haughty airs ; 
Without regarding private ends. 
Spent all his credit for his friends. 
And only chose the wise and good, — 
No flatterers, no allies in blood ; 
But succor'd virtue in distress. 
And seldom fail'd of good success, 
As numbers in their hearts must own. 
Who but for him would be unknown. 
With princes kept a due decorum. 
But never stoou in awe before 'em. 
He follow'd David's lesson just, — 
In princes never put your trust ; 
And would you make him truly sour. 
Provoke hini with a slave in power. 
The Irish Senate if you named. 
With what impatience he declaim'd! 
' Fair Liberty' was all his cry. 
For her he stood prepared to die , 
For her he boldly stood alone ; 
For her he oft exposed his own. 
Two kingdoms, just .s faction led, 



554 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



Had set a price upon his head ; 

But not a traitor could bo found 

Could sell him for six hundred pound.* 

Had he but spared his tongue and pen. 

He might have rose like other men ; 

But power was never in his thought. 

And wealth he valued not a groat. 

Ingratitude he often found. 

.\nd pitied those who meant the wound ; 

But kept the tenor of his mind, 

To merit well of human kind; 

Nor made a sacrifice of those 

Who still were true to please his foes. 

He labored many a fruitful hour 

To reconcile his friends in fKJwer; 

Saw mischief by a faction brewing. 

While they pursued each other's ruin ; 

But finding vain was all his care. 

He left the court in mere despair. 

" Perhaps I may allow the Dean 

Had too much satire in his vein. 

And seemed determined not to star\e it. 

Because no age could more deserve it. 

Yet malice never was his aim. 

He lashed the vice, but spared the name ; 

No individual could resent 

Where thousands equally were meant. 

His satire p>oints at no defect 

But what all mortals may correct; 

For he abhorred that senseless tribe 

Who call it humor when they gibe; 

He spared a hump or crooked nose 

Whose owners set not up for beaux. 

True genuine dullness moved his pity, 

Unless it offered to be witty. 

Those who their ignorance confessed 

He ne'er offended with a jest ; 

But laughed to hear an idiot quote 

Averse from Horace learned by rote. 

He knew a hundred pleasing stories. 

With all the turns of Whigs and Tories 

Was cheerful to his dying day. 

And friends would let him have his way. 

He gave the little wealth he had 

To build a house for fools and mad ; 

And proved by one satiric touch 

No nation needed it so much. 

That kingdom he has left his debtor: 

1 wish It soon may have a better." 

JONAIHAN -swin. 

• Referring lo n-Wiirils of £,yM each offered in KD>;land ar 
Ireland for the discovery uf the author of two bitter attacks t 
the Go%*crnment. 



THE LEGEND OF STIFFENBACH. 

One day the Baron Stiffenbach among his 
fathers slept. 

And his relict o'er his ashes like a water-god- 
dess wept. 

Till her apparatus lachrymal required so many 
•• goes '■ 

From certain flasks, that soon there came a 
ruby on her nose. 

The Dowager of Stiffenbach was fair enough 

to view. 
And, having her dead husband's wealth, could 

touch the rhino too; 
But yet. of all the neighb'ring nobs, not one 

would e'er propose. 
Because she wore a ruby, a large ruby on her 



At this the jewelled baroness was very much 

annoyed. 
But rival baronesses her perplexity enjoyed, 
For the ruby was a by-word and a triumph to 

her foes. 
Who, spinster, wife, and widow, all exulted at 

her nose. 

The Baroness of Stiffenbach now called the 

doctors in. 
And freely ga\-e for drugs and shrugs great 

quantities of " tin." 
At length they said 'twas surgeon's work, then 

gravely all arose. 
And left her, as they found her, with the ruby 

on her nose. 

Now came the surgeons. First they voted all 
the doctors fools, [of tools; 

Then drew from curious armories a multitude 

That they were armed to fight a bear a stran- 
ger would suppose. 

And not to dig a ruby from a baroness's nose. 

But now among the surgeons vital difference 
we find, [cut behind ; 

For some proposed to cut befor. and some to 

And soon, in scalpelomachy, they well-nigh 
came to blows. 

For the baroness's ruby — the ruby on her nose. 

At length came forward one. by lot elected 

from the rest. 
But, alas ! the eager brotherhood too closely 

round him pressed. 



LARRY O'BRANIGAN'S LETTERS. 



555 



For they stood upon the corns of the opera- Which their docthors (who pocket, like fun, 

tor's toes. | the pound starlins). 

Who. leaping, with the ruby, also sliced away Have brought into fashion to plase the owld 
the nose. darlins. 

Div'l a boy in all Bath, though /say it. could 

carry 
The grannies up hill half so handy as Larr\' ; 
That very day the baroness capriciously ex- i And the higher they liv'd, like owld crows, in 



They stitched it on immediately, yet — a'/y 
has not transpired 



pired ; 



the air, 



Thus died that lovely lady, by a judgment, 1 The more /was wanted to lug them up there. 

some suppose. 
For havmg led the baron, in his lifetime, by ; But luck has two handles, dear Judy, they say, 

the nose. And mine has both handles put on the wrong 

way. 
They made her grave three fathoms deep, by [ For. pondherin'. one morn, on adrame I'd just 



Rhine's embattled tide, 
And bowed her gently downwards by her 

darling Stiffy's side ; 
But her restless spirit wanders still, and oft, 

at evening's close. 
She haunts the castle ramparts, with her finger 

on her nose. 

Grim reader, let us blubber o'er the melan- 
choly fate 

Of the quondam Baron Stiffy's non-teetotal- 
izing mate ; 

And for the future solemnly, if possible, pro- 
pose 

To shun the weird elixirs that bring rubies on 
the nose. 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



had 
Of yourself and the babbies, at Mullinafad, 
Och, there came o'er my sinses so plasin' a 

flutther. 
That I spilt an owld Countess right clane in 

the gutther. 
Muff, feathers and all ! — the descint was most 

awful, 
And — what wasstill worse, faith — 1 knew 'twas 

unlawful : 
For, though, with mere women, no very great 

evil, 
T' upset an owld Countess in Bath is the divil ! 
So, liftin' the chair with herself safe upon it, 
( For nothin' about her was /{•///. but her bonnet). 
Without even mentionin' " By your lave, 

ma'am." 
I tuk to my heels and — here, Judy, 1 am 1 

What's the name of this town I can't say very 

well, 
But your heart sure will jump when j'ou hear 
what befell 
By mail-coach conveyance, for want of a \ Your own beautiful Larry, the very first day, 

betther. (And aSunday it was, shinin' out mighty gay,) 

To tell you what luck in this world I have had i When his brogues to this city of luck found 



LARRY O'BRANIGAN'S LETTERS. 

FIRST LETIKR. 

Dear Judy. I send you this bit of a letther 



1 left the sweet cabin at Mullinafad. 



their way. 



How I came to this England, o'er say and o'er Bein' hungry. God help me, and happenin' to 

lands. stop. 

And what cruel hard walkin' I've had on my Just to dine on the shmell of a pasthry-cook's 

hands, shop. 

Is, at this present writin', too tadious to spake, \ I saw, in the window, a large printed paper. 
So I'll mintion it all in a postscript, next week ; j And read there a name, och I that made my 
Only starv'd I was, surely, as thin as a latl 
Till I cami 

Bath, 
i luck 

male'; 
By dhraggin' owld ladies all day through the 



heart caper- 
to an up-and-down place they call Though printed it was in some quare ABC, 
That might bother a schoolmasther, let alone 
Where, as luck was, I manag'd to make a , w,'. 

male's mate. st.ect — By got, you'd have laughed. J udy, could you've 



556 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



it ' And lads more cuniint never yet left iheLiffey, 

When Murthagh — or Morthimer, as he"s nmo 

chrishen'd, 

then a | His name bein' convarted. at laist, if ht isn't — 

Lookin' sly at mc (faith, 'twas divartin' to see) 

" Of coorsn.yoa'rc a Protestant. Larry." says 

he. 



As, doubtin'. 1 cried, "why it ts.'- 

isn't." 
But it was, afther all — for. by spellin' quite slow 
First I made out " Rev. Morti 

great " O " ; 
And, at last, by hard readin' and rackin" my 

skull again. 
Out it came, nate as imported. " O'Mulligan '" Upon which says myself, wid a wink just as 



Up I jumped, like a skylark, my jewl. at that 

name, — 
Div'l a doubt on my mind, but it miis/ be the 

same. 
" Masther Murthagh, himself," says I, " all the 

world over I 



My own fosther brother — by jinks. I'm in What Murthagh could 



shiy. 
• 1st a Protestant ?— O yes. 1 am, sir." says 1 . 
And there the chat ended, and div'l a more 

word 
Controvarsial between us has since then oc- 

curr'd. 

t?. and. m troth. 



clover. 



Judy dear, 



Though lAen; in the playbill, he figures so What / myself meant, doesn't seem mighty 



grand 



clear ; 



One wet nurse it was brought us both up by I But the thruth is. though still for the Owld 



hand. 
And he'll not let me shtarve in the inci 
land !" 



■s 1 



Well, to make a long histhorj' short, niver 

doubt 
But I managed, in no time, to find the lad out ; 
And the joy of the meetin' bethuxt him and 

me. 
Such a pair of owld cumrogues — was charmin' 

to see. 
Nor is Murthagh less plas'd with th' evint 

than 1 am. 
As he just then was wantin' a Valley-de-sham ; 
And, for dressin a gintleman, one way or 

t'other. 
Your nate Irish lad is beyant every other 



Light a stickler, 
just then too shtar\'d to be over par- 
[ tic'lar : — 

And. God knows, between us. a comic'ler pair 
' Of twin Protestants couldn't be seen any 

where. 
I Next Tuesday (as towld in the playbills I min- 
tion'd. 
Address'd to the loyal and godly intintion'd,) 
His riverence, my masther, comes forward to 

prache, — 
Myself doesn't know whether sarmon or 

spache. 
But it's all one to him. he's a dead hand at 

aich; 
Like us, Paddies, in ginral. whose skill in 
orations 



„ , , ./ ■^ ,. „< ,K„ Ouite bothers the blarney of all other nations. 

But now, Judy, comes the quare part of the ~ , . , , , • . • n- • u .• • 

■' ■' -11- jj J whisht I— there s his Rivirence shoutin 



And in throth, it's the only drawback on my 

place. 
"Twas Murthagh's ill luck to be cross'd, as 

you know. I 

With an awkward mishfortune some short 



out •■ Larry." 
And sorra a word more will this shmall paper 

carr)' ; 
So. here, Judy, ends my short bit of aletther. 
Which, faix, I'd have made a much biggerand 

betther. 



, ime as, . . But div'l a one Post-office hole in this town 
That s to say. he turn d Protestant — why, 1 , _. .. 



can t lam ; 
But. of coorse. he knew best, an' it's not my 
consarn. 



Fit to swallow a dacent siz'd billy-dux down. 



SECt)N[) LETTER. 



All I know is, we both were good Cath'lics. at As it was but lasht week that I sint you a let- 
nurse, ther. 
And myself am so still— nayther betther nor j You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is 

' about; 



worse. 

Well, our barj^ain was all right and tight in 
jilTv. 



And. throth. it's a letther myself would like 
betther. 



LARRY 0-BRANIGAN-S LETTERS. 



557 



Could I manage to lave the contints of it 
For sure, if it makes even tne onaisy, [out ; 
Who takes things quiet, 'twill dhrivej'fw crazy. 
O, Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to 

him ! 
That e'er I should come to've been sarvint 

man to him. 
Or so far damane the O'Branigan blood, 
And my Aunts, the Diluvians (whom not ev'n 

the Flood 
Was able to wash away clane from the earth) 
As to sarve one whose name, of mere yesther- 

day's birth. 
Can no more to a great O, ii-forc it, purtend, 
Than mine can to wear a great O at its i-iu{. 

But that's now all over — lasht night I gev 

warnin'. 
And, masth'r as he is, will discharge him this 

mornin'. 
The thief of the world ! — but it's no use bal- 

raggin' ;— 
All I know is, I'd fifty times rather bedraggin' 
Owld ladies up hill to the ind of my days. 
Than with Murthagh to rowl in a chaise, at 

my aise, 
And be forc'd to discind through the same 

dirty ways. 
Arrah, sure, if I'd heerd where he last show'd 

his phiz, 
I'd have known what a quare sort of monsther 

he is; 
For, by gor, 'twas at Exether Change, sure 

enough, 
That himself and his other wild Irish show'd 

off; 
And it's pity, so 'tis, that they hadn't got no 

Who knew the wild crathurs to act as their 

showman — 
Sayin', " Ladies and Gintlemen, plaze to take 

notice, 
'• How shlim and how shleek this black 

animal's coat is ; 
" All by raison, we're towld, that the nathur 

o' the baste 
"Is to change its coat oiu\- in its lifetime, at 

lasie ; 
" And such objiks, in our counthry, not bein' 



" To differ on this point so much with the 

Larn'd, 
" Who call it a •Morthiincr: whereas the 

craythur 
" Is plainly a 'Murthagh,' by name and by 

nathur." 

But, throth, I've no laisure just now, Judy 

dear, 
For any thing, barrin' our own doins here, 
And the cursin' and damnin' and thund'rin', 

like mad. 
We Papists, God help us, from Murthagh 

have had. 
He says we're all murtherers — div'l a bit less — 
And that even our priests, when we go to 

confess, 
Give us lessons in murth'rin'. and wish us 

success! 
When ax'd how he daar'd, by tongue or by 

pen, 
To belie, in this way, seven millions of men. 
Faith, he said 'twas all towld him by Docthor 

Den! 
" And who the div'l's he? " was the question 

that flew 
From Chrishtian toChrishtian — but notasowl 

knew, 
While on went Murthagh, in iligant style, 
Blasphamin' us Cath'lics all the while. 
As a pack of desaivers, parjurers, villians, 
All the whole kit of th' aforesaid millions, — 
Yourself, dear Judy, as well as the rest, 
And the innocent craythur that's at your 

breast, 
All rogues together, in word and deed, 
Owld Den our instructor and Sin our creed ! 

When ax'd for his proofs again and again, 
Div'l an answer he'd give but Docthor Den. 
Couldn't he call into coort some Uvi7i men .' 
" No, thank you," he'd stick to Docthor Den — 
An owld gintleman dead a century or two. 
Who all about us, live Cath'lics. knew ; 
And of coorse was more handy, to call in a 

hurry, 
Than Docthor MacHale or Docthor Murray! 

But, throth, it's no case to be jokin' upon, 
Though myself, from bad habits, is luaktn it 

one. 
Even/tw, had you witness'd his grand climac- 

therics. 
In regard of its ««;«(•— why, in throth, I'm I Which actially threw one owld maid in hys- 



common ones, 



I "Are bought up. -as this was. by way of Fine 
Nomenons. 



consarn'd 



55« 



POEMS OF COMEDY. 



O:. och ! had you hcerd such a purty remark 

as his. 
That Papists are only " Humanity's carcasses, 
•' Ris'n " — but, by dad, I'm afeard 1 can't give 

it ye— 
I •' Ris'n from the sepulchre of — inactivity; 
•■ And, like owld corpses, dug up fromantikity, 
■• Wand'rin" about in all sorts of inikity 1 1 " 
Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld 

Light, 
Would have laugh 'd. out and out, at this 

iligant flight 
Of that figure of speech call'd the Blathenini- 

skite. 
As for me, thougli a funny thought now and 

then came to mo. 
Rage got the betther at last— and small blame ! 

to me! I 

So, slapping my thigh, " by the Powers of 

Delf," 
Says I bowldly, '• I'll make a noration myself." 
And with that i;p I jumps — but, my darlint, the 

minit 
I cock'd up my head, div'l a sinse remain'd in 

it. 
Though. saHcil. I could have got beautiful on. 
When I tuk to my legs, faith, the gab was all 

gone :— 
Which was odd, for us, Pats, who, whate'er 

we've a hand in. 
At laste in our legs show a shtrong undher- 

standin'. 

Howsumdever. detarmin'd the chaps should 
pursaive 

What I thought of their doin's. before I tuk 
lave. 

" In regard of all that." says I — there I stop- 
ped short — 

Not a word more would come, though 1 
shtruggled hard for't. 

So, schnappin' my fingers at what's called the 
Chair. 

And the ould Lord (or Lady, I b'licve) that 
sat there — 



'• In regard of all that," says I bowldly again, I 
■• T' ould Nick I pitch Mortimer, and Docthor I 

Den ; '• . ' 

Upon which the whole company cried out ' 

"Amen!" 
And myself was in hopes 'twas to what / had 

said, , 

But. by gor. no such thing — they were ncjt so j 

well bred ; 
For 'twas all to a prayer Murthagh just had l 

read out. i 

By way of fit finish to job so devout : 
That 1%—a/l/ii-r well damnin' one-half the I 

community. 
To pray God to keep all in pace an' in unity. 

This is all I can shtuff in this letter, though 

plinty I 

Of news, faith. I've got to fill more — if 'twas | 

twinty. ' 

But I'll add. on the oiilsu/f. a line, should I j 

need it. | 

Writin' " Private " upon it, that no one may 

read it. 
To tell you how Mortimer (as the Saints chrish- 

ten him) 
Bears the big shame of his sarvint's dismisshin' 

him. 

{Private Outside.) 
Jist come from his riv'rence — the job is all 

done — 
By the p>owers. I've discharg'd him as sure as 

a gun! 
An' now. Judy dear, what on earth I'm to do 
With myself an' my appetite. — both good as 

new — 
Without even a single traneen in my pocket. 
Let alone agooddacent pound starlin' to stock 

it, 
Is a mysht'r>' I lave to the One that's above. 
Who takes care of us. dissolute sowls, whin 

hard dhrove! 

THOMAS MOORE. 
Prom " T/u- Pii,h',s in P upland." 



PART XI. 

POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



Waileth a woman, " Oh, my God '" 
Wind-driven waves, with no hearts that ache, 
Why do your passionate pulses throb ? 
No lips that speak — have ye souls that sob ? 
We carry the cross — ye wear the crest ; 
We have our God — and ye your shore, 
Whither ye rush in the storms to rest ; 
We have the havens of holy prayer. 
And we have a hope — have ye despair ? 
For, storm-rocked waves, ye break evermore, 
Adown the shores and along the years. 
In the whitest foam of the saddest tears ; 
-And we, as ye, oh ! waves, gray waves ! 
Drift over a sea more deep and wide. 
For we have sorrow and we have death. 
And ye have only the tempest's breath ; 
But we have Ciod when heart oppressed, 
As a calm and beautiful shore of rest. 

AbRAM J. Ryan 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW, 



THE FOUNTAIN OF TEARS. 
If you go over desert and mountain, 
I'ar into the country of sorrow. 
To-day and to-night and to-morrow. 

And maybe for months and for years. 
You shall come, with a heart that is bursting 
For trouble and toiling and thirsting, 
You shall certainly come to the fountain 

At length, — to the Fountain of Tears, 

Very peaceful the place is, and solely 
For piteous lamenting and sighing. 
And those who come living or dying 

Alike from their hopes and their fears ; 
Full. of cypress-like shadows the place is. 
And statues that cover their faces ; 
But out of the gloom springs the holy 

And beautiful Fountain of Tears. 

And it flows and it flows with a motion 
So gentle and lonely and listless, 
And murmurs a tune .so resistless 

To him who hath suffered and hears — 
You shall surely — without a word spoken. 
Kneel downthereand knowyour heart broken, 
.\nd yield to the long curb'd emotion 

That day by the Fountain of Tears. 

For it grows and it grows, as the' leaping 
I'p higher the more one is thinking; 
And ever its tunes go on sinking 

More poignantly into the ears : 
Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain. 
Reached after dry desert and mountain. 
You shall fall down at length in your weeping 

.And bathe your sad face in the tears. 

Then, alas, while you lie there a season, 
.\nd sob between living and dying. 
And give up the land you were trying 
To find 'mid your hopes and your fears, — 



O the world shall come up and pass o'er you ; 
Strong men shall n(jt stay to care for you. 
Nor wonder indeed for what reason 
I Your way should seem harder than theirs. 

r>ut perhaps while you lie, never lifting 
Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses. 
Nor caring to raise your wet tresses 

And look how the cold world appears, — 
O perhaps the mere silences round you — 
.All things in that place grief hath found you, 
■^'ca, e'en to the clouds o'er j'ou drifting, 

-Mav soothe you somewhat thro' your tears. 

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes 
Your face, as tho' some one had kissed you ; 
Or think at least some one who missed you 

Hath sent you a thought, — if that cheers; 
; (^r a bird's little song, faint and broken, 
Mav pass for a tender word spoken : 
Knough while around you there rushes 

That life-drowning torrent of tears. 

And the tears shall flow faster and faster. 

Brim over and baffle resistance, 

.And roll down bleared roads to each distance 

Of past desolation and years : 
Till they cover the place of each sorrow. 
And leave you no past and no morrow : 
For what man is able to master 
j And stem the great Fountain of Tears .■^ 

But the floods of the tears meet and gather; 
! The sound of them all grows like thunder: 
O into what bosom, I wonder. 

Is poured the whole sorrow of years 'f 
For Eternity only seems keeping 
.Account of the great human weeping: 
May (iod, then, the Maker and Father — 
May He find a place for the tear.s. 

I .\RJHUR O'SHAUdHN'KS.SV, 



562 



rOEAfS OF LOSS AXD SO /{HO IV. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOR. 
Was ever sorrow like to our sorrow ? 

O ! God above ! 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love ? 
A deadly gloom is on us. waking, sleeping. 

Like the darkness at noontide, 
That fell upon the pallid Mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 

Before us die our brothers of starvation ; 

Around are cries of famine and despair I 
Where is hope for us. or comfort, or salva- 

Where — O! where.' [tion — 

If the angels ever hearken, downward bend- 

They are weeping, we are sure, [ing. 

At the litanies of human groans ascending 

I"rom the crush 'd hearts of the poor. 

When the human rests in love upon the 

All grief is light ; [human. 

But who bends one kind glance to illumine 

Our life-long night? 
The air around is ringing with their laughter — 

God has only made the rich to smile ; 
But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — we 
follow after, 

Weeping the while. 

And the laughter seems but uttered to deride 

When, O ! when [us. 

Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us 

From other men ? 
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us. 

Will misery for ever lay us low? 
All are eager with their insults ; but to save us 

None, none, we know. 

We never knew a childhood's mirth and glad- 
ness, [brave ; 

Nor the proud heart of youth free and 
O, a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sad- 

Is life's weary journey to the grave, [ness 
Day by day we lower sink and lower. 

Till the godlike soul within 
Falls crushed beneath the fearful demon |X)wer 

Of poverty and sin. 

So we toil on, on with fever burning 

In heart and brain. 
So we toil on, on through bitter scorning. 

Want. woe. and pain. 
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue Heaven 

Or the toil must cease — [given 

We dare not breathe the fresh air God has 

One hour in peace. 



We must toil, tho" the light of life is burning, 

O, how dim ! 
We must toil on our sick-beds, feebly turning 

Our eyes to Him, 
Who alone can hear the j>ale lip faintly saying, 

With scarce-moved breath. [ing. 

While the paler hands uplifted, and the pray- 

■• God grant us Death I " 

I.AUV WILUE. 



THEY NEVER TELL WHY. 
Go down where the wavelets are kissing the 

shore. 
And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
The poets have asked them a thousand times 

o'er. 
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it 

before. 
And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh 

evermore. 
Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? 
The waves will not answer you ; neither shall \. 

Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless 
deep. 
When the night-stars are gleaming on high. 
And hear how the billows are moaning in 

sleep. 
On the low-lying strand by the surge-beaten 

steep ; 
They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. 
Ask them what ails them : they never reply ; 
i They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why ! 
I Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The waves will not answer you ; neither shall L 

Go list to the breeze at the waning of day. 
When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye " — 

The dear little breeze — how it wishes to stay 

Where the flowers are in bloom, where the 
I singing birds play ; 

J How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome 

Ask it what ails it ; it will not reply ; [way. 
I Its voice is a sad one. it never told why. 
I Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 

The breeze will notansweryou : neither shall I. 

Go watch the wild blasts, as they spring from 

their lair. 
When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
They rush o'er the earth, and they rkle 

through the air. 



THE DEATH OF LILY. 



563 



And they blight with their breath all the 
lovely and fair, [of despair." 

And they groan like the ghosts in the "land 

Ask them what ails them : they never reply ; 

Their voices are mournful, they will not tell 
why. 

Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 

The blasts will not answer you ; neither shall I 

Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side. 

Or list where the rivers rush by ; [hide, 
The streamlets which forest trees shadow and 
And the rivers that roll in their oceanward 

tide. 
Are moaning forever wherever they glide ; 
Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
On — sad-voiced — they flow, but they never tell 

why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
Earth's streams will not answer you ; neither 

shall I. 

Go list to the voices of earth, air and sea. 

And the voices that sound in the sky ; 
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in 

each ke\'. 
And thousands of sighs swell their grand 

melody. 
Ask them what ails them : they will not reply ; 
They sigh, sigh forever, but never tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh.' 
Their lips will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

ABRAiM J. KVAN. 



NEPENTHE. 
Come Sorrow, smooth my brow and kiss my 

lips. 
And lay thy gentle hand upon my heart. 
And on my bosom pillow thy sweet head : 
For in thy silent face and loving eyes 
I trace the memories of long-fled years. 
Aye, thou art kind as thou art beautiful ! 
And never joy in its supremest hour. 
Gave aught of happiness as dear as thee ; 
For thou, the winsome shadow of my hope, 
The sweet ideal of the vanished years. 
Art still an image of the loved and lost. 
Even tho' on evening wings the Real hath fled. 
Yea, Sorrow. I will kiss thy pensive mouth. 
And call thee steadfast friend, and love thee 

well. 
For thou wert constant when all else were 

false ! 



But lo! the while my eyes with blinding tears 
Are wet, I see thy sable raiment fall, 
And in my arms I have unconscious clasped 
The smiling, white-winged angel of the Lord! 

ROWLAND li. MAHANV. 



SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. 
She died in beauty! like a rose 

Blown from its parent stem ; 
She died in beauty! like a pearl 

Dropped from some diadem. 

She died in beauty ! like a lay 

Along a moonlit lake ; 
She died in beauty! like the song 

Of birds amid the brake. 

She died in beauty! like the snow 

On flowers dissolved away ; 
She died in beauty! like a star 

Lost on the brow of day. 

She lives in glory ! like night's gems 

Set round the silver moon ; 
She lives in glory ! like the sun 

Amid the blue of June. 

chari.es doyne sillery. 



THE DEATH OF LILY. 
They called her" Lily." Lilian was her name. 
But from her birth she seemed so waxen white. 
So fairy slight, so gentle and so pure, 
That to her father's mind she ever brought 
The image of that pale and fragile flower ; 
And so he called her " Lily." 'Twas a term 
In which endearment, tenderness, and hope 
Were all wreathed up ; the hope too often 

crossed 
By jealous fears, when some untoward breath 
Too roughly bent to earth the sickly flower, 
Leaving it drooping on its yielding stem. 
And there she lay at last — almost in Heaven— 
Of time and of eternity a part — 
A dying, living link, uniting those 
Who live to die— and die to ever live ! 

He sat beside her bed, and in his hands 
Buried his streaming eyes. His soul rebelled: 
" She had no right to die — to rive his heart ; 
Rob him and it of all life's tenderest ties." 
He felt as he could say : " Lily, lie there 
Forever dying; but, oh ! never die 



564 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SOAAVIV. 



Till I die too." He thought not of his wife. 
She was his other self: she was himself; 
But Lily was their cherished life of life— 
Of each and both a part,— so grafted on. 
That, if removed, they must become once more 
Two bodies with two souls,— no longer one. 
Their living link destroyed ;— not loving less. 
But singly loving ; — twixt their hearts a gulf 
Unbridged by Lily's lo\e :— a love so pure. 
That not a taint of selfishness was near: 
All this he felt, and on the future looked 
As on a desolation. 

Lily spoke — 
Or whispered rather — but a thunder peal 
Would less affect him than her sinking tones : 
" Raise me, dear father ; take me to your 

breast — j 

Your broad kind breast, so full of love for me — | 
Twill rest me on my road— 'tis half-way 

Home I " 

And then he rose, and round her wasted form 
His brawny arms, before whose mighty 

strength 
The massive anvil quivered, as his hands 
Swung high the ponderous sledge — or in 

whose gripe [dued,— 

The fiery steed stood conquered and sub- 
Closed, as the breath of Heaven, or God's 

own love. 
So lightly, softly, gently, hemmed they in 
The little dying child. Then there he sat. 
Her face upon his breast, and on his knee 
Her tearless mother's head : for all her tears 
■Were inly wept, dropping like molten lead 
Upon her breaking heart. Far in the west 
Long waves of crimson clouds stretched o'er 

the hills; 
And thro" those clouds, as in a sea of blood. 
The sun sank slowly down. Ere his last ray 
Glanced upward from the earth, the father felt 
His Lily lift her head — celestial light 
Beamed from her eyes, as for the last embrace 
She to her mother turned, and then to him : 
"They beckon me," she said. " 1 come 1 1 

come.'" 
Around his neck she twined her faded arms. 
Rising obedient to her heavenly call ; 
Again he pressed her lips, but in the kiss 
Her soul enfranchised, bounded from its 

thrall; 
Its crumbling fetters dropped upon liis heart, 
The angel was at Home ! 

JOHN CRAWFORD WILSON. 
Frum " //omiT.'" 



ANOTHER JUNE. 

Last June, in my lone garden, a lovely rose- 
tree grew. 

Rich in God's gracious giving of sunshine and 
of dew ; 

Rich with a wealth of roses, fragrant and 
glowing red. 

• 1 ween there are none fairer in all the 
world," I said. 

E'en as I spake, a spirit came to my humble 

door; 
I trembled, gazing on him : — oft had he come 

before. 
•Give me the roses, maiden ; " his voice was 

calm and sweet — 
■ Give me these cherished blossoms ere 

comcth noontide heat." 

"Nay, wouldst thou claim the roses? I've 

given all the rest ; 
Whate'er thou would'st I gave thee, the rarest 

and the best ; 
Leave me these last sweet blossoms, my lonely 

life to cheer — 
Leave them, 1 pray thee, leave them ; to me 

they've grown so dear." 

Murmured the spirit sadly, "O maiden, need 

I tell 
Who bids me claim the roses .=— thou knowest 

all too well ; 
Yet keep the flowers thou lovest, that 1 in 

vain implore." 
Then the sweet spirit vanished, and came to 

me no more. 

Ah, me I my red, red roses : they bloomed full 

many a day ; 
At last the summer waned and died, and then 

they passed away ; 
Yet my heart sang within me, " Grieve not, for 

thou wilt soon 
See thy red roses budding when comes 

another Uine." 

Another June! alas! alas! Behold, sweet 

June is here, 
But June nath brought no roses my lonely 

life to cheer; 
Never a bud nor leaflet to glad mine eyes 

again:— 
My fair rose-tree is withered — only the thorns 

remain. 

KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 



THE YOUNGER FLORUS. 



565 



A MEMORY. 
Oh. ye virginal white rose-buds, all dewy, 
sweet and tender, 
Swaying on your frail, frail stems, though 
ne'er a breeze doth blow, 
I love ye for that fairer bud that perished "mid 
the splendor 
Of the song and sun and fragrance two 
summer-tides ago ! 

I called her oft our rosebud — no flow'ret's 
name seemed meeter 
For the pure and joyful promise of her 
lovely girlish grace : 
But past my art to picture — than all my dream- 
ing sweeter, 
The glorious, wondrous spirit-light upon 
her fair young face. 

Oh. the baleful fever-breath our fragile 
blossom blighting! 
Oh, the bitter chalice to our darling's young 
lips pressed ! 
Oh. the fitful gleams of false, false hope, a 
while our darkness lighting ! 
Oh. the days and nights of agony and woful 
wild unrest ! 

But the Lord Himself was with her to pity her 
and love her: 
Earthly lover shared not her maiden heart 
with Him. 
And the gentle Virgin Mother and the angels j 
bent above her. ] 

And their glory round her brightened as 
the lights of time grew dim ! 

My friend, my chosen sister — child and woman 
strangely blended — | 

Did thy spirit go out gladly, leaving blessing 
as it fled? 
For all its living loveliness thy face in death 
transcended, 
Purer than the snowy blossoms o'er thy 
virgin-vesture spread. 

Oh, heart that loved me loyally, that prized 
my poor endeavor, 
I id I love thee purely, truly, I would be glad 
for thee ! 
But oh, my life without thee ! Lord of the 
bright forever, 
Forgive my 'plaint who knowest what my 
darling was to me ! 

KATHERINE E. CONWAY. 



AT THE SHIP'S SIDE- 
Sing not so merrily, O little bird! 

My heart is sad to-day ; 
Sing not so loudly of thy happy loves.- 

My love has gone away. 

Laugh not so blithely, dancing ocean waves ! 

I ne'er shall smile again ; 
Break not in tender kisses on your strand, — 

Love's kisses bring but pain. 

Beam not so brightly, O thou pitiless sun ! 

My life has set in clouds ; [skies,- - 

Cast not such golden floods o'er earth and 

Black night my spirit shrouds. 

Bloom not with mocking beauty, O ye flowers ! 

He called me fair as you ; 
But beauty cannot bring a lost love back. 

Or make a false vow true. 

O bird ! O waves ! O sun ! O flowers ! I know 

■^e would not be so gay. 
Could ye but look one moment in my heart. 

And see it break to-day. 

FANNY PARNELL. 



THE YOUNGER FLORUS. 
Child of the lotos lily. 
Child of the dreams of old and holy Nile, 
Lover of slumberous days and stilly. 

Giver of rest, [smile. 

Cradled to sleep beneath the veiled Isidean 

Lift once more thy brow divine! 

Leaning from thy crystal shrine. 
Hear thou my quest! 

Child of the hidden glory, [One, 

Child of the still inscrutable and shrouded 
Child of the flood and desert hoary, — 
Child of the earth's immortal throes ! 
Rise ere the drowsy kisses of the wakening sun 
Gild once more thy mitred hair. 
Rise and hearken to my prayer, 
Healer of woes! 

Ever the mystic finger [speech. 

Laid on the lips that were not made for 
Tells how the ancient gods yet linger. 

Wrapped in deep peace, — [reach. 

Wrapped in a silence that no poet's voice can 
Safe from cynic's sneer and glance. 

Lulled in charmed and poppied trance. 
Till time shall cease. 



r: 



66 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



Heart-shapcn fruit they brought thee. 
Dumb sentry of the torture-chambers of the 
heart! [thee, 

Laden with blood-red fruit they sought 
Singing no sad or joyous song; 
Tongue-shapen leaves they brought in token 
of thy art, 
Hiding with unruffled face 
Fear and sorrow's eaten trace. 
Patient and strong! 

God of the long-enduring, 
God of the suffering and the silent soul. 
With thy lore all anguish curing. 
Hear thou my quest I 
While the calm mother-tides that lap thee 
onward roll, 
Teach me with sealed lips to wait 
Worst or best of changeless fate, — 
Ever at rest . 

FANNY I'ARNELI.. 



Gone is the old-time peace and love ! 
Gone is the bloom of the shimmering meadows, 

Music of birds as they sweep and fall.— 
All the great world is dim with shadow. 

Because no longer mine eyes can see [me.— 

The eyes that made summer and life for 
And that is all. 

.MARY Y„ HLAkl 



A DEAD SUMMER. 
What lacks the summer .- 

Not roses blowing. 
Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife. 
Nor green things gay with the bliss of grow- 
ing. 
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of 
life,^ 
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining. 

Nor soft winds murmur to rise and fall, 
Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twining. — 
Three little buds 1 miss, no more, [door, — 
That blossomed last year at my garden 
And that is all. 

What lacks the summer? 

Not waves a-quiver 

With arrows of light from the hand of dawn. 
Nordroopingof boughs by the dimpling river. 

Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn. 
Nor tides upswept upon silver beaches. 

Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall. 
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches, — 

Life pulses, gladly on vale and hill, 

Hut three little hearts that I love are still, — 
And that is all. 

What lacks the summer ? 

O light and savor. 
And message of healing the world above ! 
Gone is the old-time strength and flavor. 



LOSSES. 
Upon the white sea-sand 
There sat a pilgrim band. 
Telling the losses that their lives had known; 
While evening waned away 
From breezy cliff and bay, [moan. 

And the strong tides went out with weary- 
One spake with quivering lip 
Of a fair-freighted ship, [down ; 

With all his household to the deep gone 
I But one had wilder woe — 

\ For a fair face, long ago 

Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourned their youth 

With a most loving ruth. 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green; 

And one upon the west 

Turned an eye that would not rest. 
For far-ofl[ hills whereon its joy had been. 

Some talked of vanished gold. 

Some of proud honors told, [no more; 
Some spake of friends that were their trust 
! And one of a green grave 

Beside a foreign wave. 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done. 

There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 

"Sad losses have ye met, 

But mine is heavier yet. 
For a believing heart hath gone from me." 

'• Alas I " these pilgrims said. 

•• For the living and the dead — 
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
' For the wrecks of land and sea ; 

But, however it came to thee. 
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss." 

FRANCK-S BROWN. 



FOREVERMORE. 567 


A SONG OF CONTRAST. 


When the comrades, dear and true. 


Growing green on the liill-top, breaking bloom 

on the lea ; 
Wake of song in the willow, rise of sun on the 


Closer, warmer, fonder grew. 

In the hour of friendship's proof. 


When the false ones stood aloof. 


And their friendship was but show, 


Over the fair young grasses, falling of tiny 


In the long, long ago. 


feet,— 




Wee hands folding the flowers, rosy, and 


Do not sing that song again ; 


flower-sweet : 


I have lived my years in vain, 


Lost in her eyes the blue-bells ; caught in her 


And my hair is thin and gray, 


rippled hair 


And I'm passing fast away. 


Glint of the early sun-light, gilding the soft 


On the dark and downward streams 


spring air.— 


I'm a wreck of idle dreams. 


Grow, green, on the hill top. break, O bloom, 


And it puts me on the rack 


on the lea ! 


At the weary looking back; 


Waken, O song and sunsnine,— bless the dear 


At the ebb and at the flow 


God for me ! 


In the long, long ago. 


Growing gloom on the mountain, deep'ning 


Do not sing that iOiig again. 


dark in the vale ; 


It distracts my weary brain. 


Blackness folding the breakers, white in the 


Ah ! too well, alas, I know 


coming gale; 


It is time for me to go. 


Bright bloom paled to a phantom, wrapt in 


And to leave to younger eyes 


an icy veil, — 


The mild mystery of the skies. 


Rough winds tossing the willow, bird-song 


And this mighty world I tread. 


hushed to a wail : 


And the grander age ahead : — 


Wailing for days departed, wailing for one who 


There's a mist upon the river. 


lies 


And there's bleakness on the shore ; 


With wee hands folded meekly, under the 


And in dreams I pass forever. 


leaden skies. 


While sad music wafts me o'er. 


Grow, gloom, on the mountain ! deepen, O 


HUGH F, McDER.MOTT. 


dark, in the vale \ 




Beat against the black heavens, O winds of 
the wild sea gale ! 






MINNIE GILMORE. 


FOREVERMORE. 




I had a little sprite whose name was hope : 




It sang glad songs into my eager ear ; 


IN THE LONG, LONG AGO. 


But when most loved its notes died all away. 


Do not sing that song again. 


And now its songs are stilled forevermore — 


For it fills my heart with pain ; 


Forevermore. 


I am bending to the blast. 




And it tells me of the past, 


I heard a voice, born of my human love. 


Of the years of long ago, 


Speak to my human weakness words of joy ; 


When my days were young and fair; 


Each was as sweet as sounds of dulcimer. 


And my heart as light as air ; 


But all are silent now forevermore— 


When one feeling filled the breast, 


Forevermore. 


And one image gave it rest. 




In the long, long ago. 


I held within my own a little hand. 




White as the moon, and it became as cold ; 


Do not sing that song again ; 


I pressed it to my lips in agony; 


There's a tear in its refrain. 


'Twas then withdrawn — withdrawn forever- 


It brings sadly back the time 


more ,- 


When my manhood felt its prime ; 


Forevermore. 



5bS 



rOKAI^y 



AND SOJfA'OH. 



I've worn a faded lily on my breast. 
These many days, these many weary days ; 
But now, by unseen fingers touched, it falls. 
It falls away, and falls forevermorc — 
Forevermore. 

I held a beautiful and precious gem 
Against my beating heart for many a year ; 
But while most cherished it hath turned to 
And here 1 lay it down forevermore — [dust, 
Forevermore. 

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHKK. 



THE DYING MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
" O God. it is a dreadful night. — how fierce the 

dark winds blow! 
It howls like mourning Banshee, its breathings 

speak of woe ; 
'Twill rouse my slumbering orphans — blow 

gently. O wild blast ! 
My wearied hungry darlings are hushed in 

peace at last. 

'• And how the cold rain tumbles down in tor- 
rents from the skies ! 

Down, down, upon our stiffened limbs, into my 
children's eyes: — 

O God of Heaven ! stop your hand until the 
dawn of day. 

And out upon the weary world again we'll take 
our way. 

" But, ah ! my prayers are worthless — O I 

louder roars the blast. 
And darker frown the pitchy clouds, the rain ; 

falls still more fast ; j 

O God ! if you be merciful, have mercy now. 

I pray- 
O God ! forgive my wicked words — 1 know not 

what 1 say 1 

•■ To see my ghastly babies — my babes so meek 

and fair — 
To see them huddled in that ditch, like wild 

beasts in their lair : 
Like wild beasts ! No ! the vixen cubs that 

sport on yonder hill. I 

Lie warm this hour. and. I'll engage, of food ' 

they've had their fill. | 

" O blessed Queen of Mercy ! look down from 
that black sky — j 

You've felt a mother's misery — then hear a | 
mother's cr>' ! j 



I mourn not my own wretchedness, but let my 

children rest, 
O watch and guard them this wild night, and 

then I shall be blest !" 

I Thus prayed the wanderer, but in vain ! — in 

vain her mournful cry! 
God did not hush that piercing wind, nor 

brighten that dark sky 
But when the ghastly winter's dawn its sickly 

radiance shed, 
; The mother and her wretched babes lay stiff- 
i ened, grim, and dead ! 

JOHN KEEGAN. 



IF I HAD THOUGHT. 
If I had thought thou couldst have died, 

I might not weep for thee ; 
But I forgot, when b)- thy side, 

That thou couldst mortal be ; 
It never through my mind had jjast 

The time would e'er be o'er. 
And I on thee should look my last. 

And thou shouldst smile no more. 

And still upon that face I look. 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook 

That I must look in vain. 
But. when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid. 
.■\nd now 1 feel, as well I may. 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. 

If thou would "st stay e'en as thou art. 

All cold and all serene. 
1 still might press thy silent heart, 

.•\nd where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have. 

Thou seemest still mine own. 
Hut there 1 lay thee in thy grave 

.-\iid I am now alone ! 



1 (io not think, where'er thou art. 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I. perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee; 
Yet there was round thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before. 
As fancy never could have drawn. 

And never can restore. 

CHARLES WOLFE. 



A LAST LULLABY. 



569 



MAIDEN, PRAY FOR ME. 
Silent, remote, this liamlet seems — 

How iiushied tlie breeze ! tlie eve liow calm I 
Liglit through my dying cliamber beams, 

But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
Kind villagers, God bless your shed! 

Hark I 'tis for prayer, the evening bell — 
Oh, stay ! and near my dying bed. 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell. 

When leaves shall strew the waterfall 

In the sad close of autumn drear. 
Say " The sick youth is freed from all 

The pangs and wo he suffered here." 
So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 

But when your belfry tolls my knell. 
Pray for the soul of that lost one — 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell I 

Oh ! pity her in sable robe 

Who to my grassy grave will come. 
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe — 

She was my love : point out my tomb. 
Tell her my life would have been hers — 

'Twas but a day! — God's will ! — 'tis well : 
But weep with her, kind villagers ! — 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 

FRANCIS S. MAHONV. 
From the French of Millcvoye. 



SIDE BY SIDE. 



The grass is green above his grave. 

But while it blossoms, I decline ; 
Another crop will never wave 

Between the heart I loved and mine. 
My people gave me, when he died, 
Their pledge to lay me by his side. 

He loved me, and I loved him too, 
They knew my plight to him was given. 

And when I saw his wounds, they knew 
The death pang thro' my heart was driven. 

I read my sentence in the gore 

That streaked his white limbs, flowing o'er. 

Why did he love me.' Strong and tall. 
And wise as well as brave was he. 

And I so young and slight and small. 
Sat like a child upon his knee. 

And still he kissed my mouth and eyes 

And filled my ears with happy sighs. 



I know he died amidst the foes 
That rule and wreck his native land. 

That numbers fell beneath the blows 
He dealt them with his brawny hand ; 

But he, the foremost in the fray, 

Could not escape that bloody day. 

I know the Saxon's women pale 

Will hear his name with wild affright. 

And long shall foemen tell the tale 
Of how he thunder'd thro' the fight, 

And what a crowd of bayonets drank 

His precious life-blood ere he sank ; — 

That dear red blood that ever made 
His cheeks as hot as ruddy flame. 

That in his throbbing temples played 
And quivered on thro' all his frame. 

And thrilled my heart, I know not how, 

But life is cold without it now. 

I do not blame him that he gave 
His life to Ireland's stronger claim ; 

I asked him not to live a slave 

When that dread day of battle came : 

But while we wept he knew that I 

Would share his fate, to live or die. 

And now his grave is soft and green, 
But o'er the narrow chamber soon 

Will fresh red earth again be seen. 
And women raise another croon ; 

For all the weepers when he died 

Declared they'd lay me by his side. 

TIMOTHY II. SULLIVAN. 



A LAST LULLABY. 
Kiss the sweet eyes to closing; 

Smooth out the tangled hair ; 
Fold her hands on her bosom. 

As though she were at prayer. 
Under the tender grasses 

Lay her down in the sod ; 
So fareth the empty casket— 

The jewel is with God ! 

Life is the day of labor, 

Death is the night of rest ; 
The Father saw she was tired. 

And took her to His breast. 
Folded her round with darkness. 

Cradled her in the sky, 
And angels soothe her to slumber. 

Chanting a lullaby. 



570 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SOUROH'. 



Sweetly, O my own darling, 

Sweetly and safely sleep ! 
Never for thee the waking, 

Waking to work and weep. 
Free from the world's hard bondage. 

Free from its wrong and rack — 
O babe, though my arms are empty, 

I would not have thee back ! 

A kiss on the bright ringlets. 

Sunning the brow so meek ; 
A kiss on the still lashes, 

Shading the dainty cheek ; 
Over the red mouth, paling — 

Over the heart so sweet — 
.\ kiss on the tiny lingers ; 

A kiss on the wee feet! 

So, it is ended ; ended I 

One long look on her face- 
Now, friend, clasp down the cover. 

And lay the sod in place. 
This is the empty casket ; 

The jewel is with God. 
But, oh, to lie with my baby. 

Under the churchyard sod ! 



I LOVE LIES A-DYING. 

Come in gently, and speak low. 

Love lies a-dying ; 
By his death-bed, standing so. 

Hush, hush your crying. 

Once his eyes were full of light. 
Who now lies a-dying ; 
[ Round about him falls the night, 

I Hush, hush your crj'ing. 

Ghostly winds begin to blow. 

Love lies a-dying; 
Hark where distant waters flow, 

Hush, hush your crying. 

From a Land of Lost Delight — 
Now he lies a-dying — 

Visions come to haunt his sight. 
Hush, hush your crj-ing. 

From a land he used to know- 
Love lies a-dying — 
I Ghosts of dead songs come and go, 

I Hush, hush your crying. 



Perished hopes like lilies white. 

Now he lies a-dying. 
Leave beside him, in death's night. 

Hush, hush your cr)-ing, 

Round about him, to and fro. 

Now he lies a-dying. 
Phantom feet move soft and slow. 

Hush, hush your crying. 

Sharply once did sorrow bite, 

O Love lies a-dying ! 
Tears and blood sprang warm and bright. 

Hush, hush your crj-ing. 

Pain is done now, strength is low, 

Love lies a-dying ; 
Let him gently languish so. 

Hush, hush your crying. 

HUlLll' UOURKK .MARSTON. 



A FAREWELL. 
Hath any loved you well down there. 

Summer or winter through ? 
Down there, have you found any fair 

Laid in the grave with you ? 
Is death's long kiss a richer kiss 

Than mine was wont to be.^ 
Or have you gone to some far bliss. 

And quite forgotten me.' 

What soft enamoring of sleep 

Hath you in some soft way ? 
What charmed death holdeth you with deep 

Strange lure by night and day.' 
A little space below the grass. 

Out of the sun and shade. 
But worlds away from me, alas ! 

Down there where you are laid I 

My bright hair's waved and wasted gold. 

What is it now to thee 
Whether the rose-red life I hold. 

Or white death holdeth me.' 
Down there you love the grave's own green. 

And evermore you rave 
Of some sweet seraph you have seen 

Or dreamed of m the grave. 

There you shall lie as you have lain. 

Though in the world above 
Another live your lif j again. 

Loving again your love ; 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 



5/1 



Is it not sweet beneath the palm ? 

Is not the warm day rife 
With some long mystic golden calm, 

Better than love or life ? 

The broad quaint odorous leaves, like hands 

Weaving the fair day through, 
Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands. 

While death weaves sleep for you ; 
And many a strange rich breathing sound 

Ravishes morn and noon, 
And in that place you must have found 

Death a delicious swoon. 

Hold me no longer for a word 

I used to say or sing : 
Ah ! long ago you must have heard 

So many a sweeter thing: 
For rich earth must have reached your heart 

And turned the faith *o flowers ; 
And warm wind stolen, part by part. 

Your soul through faithless hours. 

And many a soft seed must have won 

Soil of some yielding thought. 
To bring a bloom up to the sun 

That else had ne'er been brought ; 
And doubtless many a passionate hue 

Hath made that place more fair. 
Making some passionate part of you 

Faithless to me down there. 

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 



SPOKEN IN ANGER. 
'Twas but a little word in anger spoken. 
While proud eyes flashed through bitter 
burning tears ; 
But oh. I felt that fatal word had broken 
The cord of love that bound our hearts for 
years. 
Thy tortured face, that long wild look of 
sorrow, 
Like some pale ghost, must haunt me while 
I live : 
And yet, how bright, how full of joy the 
morrow, [give !' 

Had I but breathed one simple word — " For- 

I did not hear thy tender voice appealing, 
Nor marked thy anguish when I cried," De- 
part !" 

Too blind to see thy pitying glance, revealing 
The generous promptings of thy noble heart. 



How could I know that faithful heart was 
yearning. 
Though crushed and wounded to its inmost 
core, 
To take me back, like weary bird returning 
In fear and trembling, when the storm is 



" Remember, love, that it may be forever ; 

To see my face no more by night or day. 

Be calm, rash heart, think well before we 

sever ; 

Recall the angry word, and bid me stay." 

Dead silence fell; the song-birds hushed their 

singing. 
"Enough." I proudly cried ; "I choose my 

fate." 
While ever through my maddened brain kept 
ringing 
The death-knell of my love — too late, too 
late ! 

" Forgive, forgive !" I wailed, the wild tears 
streaming. 
As, 'mid the moaning trees, I stood alone; 
" Love, let thy kisses wake me from my dream- 
ing!" [gone. 
Thy pleading voice, thy tortured face, was 
That angry word, I may recall it never ; 

For o'er thy narrow grave rank weeds have 
grown. 
" Remember, love, that it may be forever." 
Ah, words prophetic ! love, had I but known! 

My locks are gray, my eyes are dim with weep- 
ing, 

The face once loved by thee, no longer fair ; 
Beneath the daisies thou art calmly sleeping : 

There a lone woman often kneels in prayer. 
Ah. sweetheart mine, thou art so lowly lying. 

Thou canst not hear the tearful voice above 
That with the night wind evermore is sighing, 

" I spoke in anger ! oh, forgive me, love !" 

FANNY FORRESTER. 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND, 
She is far from the land where her young 
Hero sleeps, 
And lovers are around her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 
weeps. 
For her heart in his grave is lying! 



5/2 



J'vEMS OF LOSS AX J) SOA'A'l)!!' 



She sings the wild songs of her dear native 
plains, 
Ever>' note which he lovd awaking.— 
Ah! little they think, who delight in her 
strains. 
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! 

He had liv'd for his love, for his countrj- he 

died. 

They were all that to life had entwind him. 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be i 

dried, i 

Nor long will his love stay behind him I 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams 
rest. 
When they promise a glorious morrow : | 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from 
the west. 
From her own loved Island of sorrow. 

•rHO.M.\S NKJUKE. 



LA VIA DOLOROSA. 
I wander here, I wander there. 

Through the desert of life all wearily; 
No joy on earth for the pilgrim soul, — 
On, on for ever, drearily ; 
O'er the mountain height. 
In the tempest night. 
Through the mist and the gloom 
We press on to the tomb, 
While the death-like pall of a midnight sky 
Hangs over past and futurity. 

And the echo of wandering feet I hear. 
And human voices and hearts are near; 
But lonely, lonely each one goeth. 
On his dark path, and little knoweth 
Of love, kind words, or sympathy. 
Oh ! fain would I lay me down and die' 
For the upward glance of a tearful eye 
Is all I have known of humanity. 

Yet must I on, tho' darker and drearer. 
And lonelier ever the pathway seems. 
And spectral shadows of death draw nearer. 
And rare and faint are the sun-light gleams; 
An unseen powei impelleth us on,— 
No pause, no rest for the weary one,— 
Till we reach the shore of that fathomless sea ' 
Where Time pourelh down to eternity. 1 

LADY WILDE. 



LADY GORMLEY. 
She wanders wildly through the night. 

Unhappy I-ady Gormley ! 
And hides her head at morning light, 

Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
No home has she, no kindly kin. 
But darkness reigneth all within. 
For sorrow is the child of sin 

With hapless Lady Gormley. 

What time she sat on Tara's throne ! 

Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
Bright jewels sparkled on her zone. 

Unhappy Lady Gormley! 
But her fair seeming could not hide 
The wayward will, the heart of pride, 
The wit still ready to deride 

Of scornful Lady Gormley. 

The daughter of a kingly race 

Was lovely Lady Gormley ; 
A monarch's bride, the first in place, 

Was noble Lady Gormley ; 
The fairest hand she had, the skill 
The lute to touch, the harp to thrill. 
Melting and moving men at will. 
The peerless Lady Gormley, 

Nor was it courtly art to call 

The splendid Lady Gormley 
The first of minstrels in the hall. — 

All-gifted Lady Gormley ! 

Song flowed out from her snowy throat 

.\s from the thrush, and everj' note 

Taught men to dream and bards to dote 

On lovely Lady Gormley. 

But armed as is the honey-bee 

Was fickle Lady Gormley; 

And hollow as the alder-tree 

Was smiling Lady Gormley. 

And cold and haughty as the swan 

That, glancing sideward, sailelh on ; 

That loves the moon and hates the dawn. 
Was heartless Lady Gormley. 



God's poor had never known her 

The lofty Lady Gormley ; 
She had no smile for nun or frere. 
The worldly Lady Gormley ; 
She fed her heart on human praise. 
Forgot her soul in prosp'rous days. 
Was studious but how to amaze — 
The haughty Lady Gormley", 



THE WHITE LADY. 



573 



At last she fell from her great height. 

Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 
Her lord had perished in the fight. 

Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 
And now she has nor house nor home, 
Destined from rath to rath to roam. 
Too proud to make amend or moan. 

Unhappy Lady Gormley ! 

Behold her on her lonely way. 

The wretched Lady Gormley, 
And mark the moral of my lay — 

The lay of Lady Gormley I [friend. 
When Fortune smiles, make God your 
On His love more than man's depend. 
So may you never in the end 

Share woe with Lady Gormley! 

THOMAS D'ARCV M<^GEE. 



THE WHITE LADY. 
Once more the Phantom Coimtess. attired 

white, appears. 
With mourning and with wailing, with tr 

mors and with tears. 
Once more appears a-gliding forth from . Else would I warn from night to morn, else 



And at whiles along the corridors is heard her 

thrilling cry — 
" Awake, awake, my kindred ! — The Time of 

Times is nigh! 

" Awake, awake, my kindred ! O. saw ye what 

I see. 
Sleep never more would seal your eyes, this 

side Eternity ! 
Through the hundred-vaulted cavern-crypts, 

where I and mine abide. 
Boom the thunders of the rising storm, the 

surgings of the tide — 
You note them not ; you blindly face the hosts 

of Hate and Fate ! 
Alas ! Your eyes will open soon — too soon, 

yet all too late ! 

■' Oh God ! Oh God ! the coming hour arouses 

e'en the Dead ; 
Yet the Living thus can slumber on. like 

things of stone or lead. 
The dry bones rattle in their shrouds, but you. 

you make no sign ! 
I dare not hope to pierce your soul by those 

weak words of mine. 



pictures and from walls. 
In Prussia's gorgeous palaces and old baronial 

halls— 
And the guards that pace the ramparts and 

the terrace-walks by night 
Are stricken with a speechlessness and swoon- 
ing at the sight. 



cry. 'Oh, Kings, be just! 

Be just, if bold ! Loose where you may ! Bind 

only where you must .' 



What bodes this resurrection upon our 

stage ? 
Comes she perchance to warn and wake a 

ghostless. godless age? 
Announces she the death of Kings and Kay- 

sers as of yore — _ [no more ? 

A funeral and a crowning. — a pageant, and 
I know not — but men whisper through the 

land from South to North. 
That a deeper grief, a wider woe. to-day has 

called her forth. 

She nightly weeps — they say so' — o'er the 
beds of Young and Old. 

O'er the infant's crimson cradle. — o'er the 
couch of silk and gold 



■' I. sinful one, in Orlamund I slew my children 

fair: 
Thence evermore, till time be o'er, my dole 
I and my despair, 

ng I Of that one crime in olden time was born my 

endless woe : [to and fro. 

For that one crime I wander now in darkness 
Think /<• of me, and what I dree, you whom 

no law controls. 
Who slay your people's holiest hopes, their 

liberties, their souls! 



"Enough! I must not say G'tw/ night, or bid 

the doomed farewf/// 
Down to my own dark home I go — mv 

Hades' dungeon cell. 
Above my head lie brightly spread the flowers 

that Summer gives. 
Free waters flow, fresh breezes blow, all nature 

laughs and lives; 
For hours she stands, with clasped hands. \ But where you tread the flowers drop dead. 



lamenting by the side 



the grass grows pale and sere. 



Of the sleeping Prince and Princess— of the And round you floats in clotted waves Hell's 
Landgrave and his bride ; | lurid atmosphere! " 



5/4 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SOK/iOH^: 



She lifts on high her pallid arms — she rises II. 

from the ^oar. An afternoon of April : no sun appears 

Turns round and round without a sound, then hijjh, 

passes through the door. 
Hut through the open trellises the warder 

often sees 
Her moonpale draper)' floating down the long 

dim galleries; 
And the guards that pace the ramparts and 

the terrace-walks by night. 
Are stricken with a speechlessness and swoon- They stop. The long line closes up like 

ing at the sight. 

JAMK.S CLARENCE MANGAN 
AdapUil from J'reiligralh. 



Rut a moist and yellow lustre fills the dei| 

ness of the sky : 
.And through the castle gateway, left emp 

and forlorn. 
Among the leafless avenues an honored bii 

is borne. 



LADY ALICE. 

Now what doth Lady Alice so late on the tur- 
ret stair, 

Without a lamp to light her, but the diamond 
in her hair; 

When ever\- arching passage overflows with 
shallow gloom. 

And dreams float through the castle, into 
every silent room.^ 

She trembles at her footsteps, although they 

fall so light ; 
Through the turret loopholes she sees the 

wild midnight ; 
Broken vapors streaming across the stormv 

sky; 
Down the empty corridors the blast doth moan 



She steals along a gallen,'. she pauses by a 

door; 
And fast her tears are dropping down upon 

the oaken floor; 
And thrice she seems retur;iing, but thrice 

she turns again : — 
Now heavy lie the cloud of sleep on that old 

father's brain. 



gigantic worm ; 
A shape is standing in the (>ath, a wan an 

ghost-like form, [any soum: 

Which gazes fixedly; nor moves, nor utt« ; 
Then, like a statue built of snow, sinks dou i 

upon the ground. 

And though her clothes are ragged, an' 

though her feet are bare, 
And though all wild and tangled falls her 

heavy silk-brown hair; 
Though from her eyes the brightness, from 

her cheeks the bloom is fled. 
They know their I^dy Alice, the darling of 

the dead. 

With silence, in her own old room the fainting 

form they lay. 
Where all things stand unalter'd since the 

night she fled away : 
But who — but who shall bring to life her 

father from the clay ? 
But who shall give her back again her heart of 

a former day .' 

WILLIAM Al.LlNOHA.M. 



THE KNIGHTS REMORSE. 

. ; TaU- of Offaly and L.-ix." 

A gallant knight at ease reclined and sipped 

the beaded wine. 
Bright fancies floating through his mind, to 
music's strains divine. 



Sweet lyrics of the camp and chase, and of his 
bosom's queen. 
Oh, well it were that iu-.<er shouldst thou A lovely maid of noble race, he parted ycster 

waken from thy sleep 1 e'en. 

For wherefore should they waken, who waken I 

but to weep ? .Anon, those pleasant themes took wing ; some 

No more, no more beside thy bed doth Peace memory of the past 

a vigil keep, .\rose and checked the trembling string— all 
But Woe— a lion that awaits thy rousing for i other thoughts o'ercast. 

its leap. I • King's and Queea's Counlies. 



O.VL]- aOA/E KEUCS. 



It cooled his ardent spirit's fire, and glory's 

martial strain : 
His hca.t more true than lay of lyre, gave 

forth this fond refrain : 

•' My lady-love is fair to view, her brow is like 

the snow, 
Her thought is pure as summer dew, her voice 

soft music's fiow. 
And though her sire is high in power, and 

prompt at honor's call. 
Her virtue is the priceless dower that holds 

my heart in thrall. 

" And yet. for all her matchless charms, my 

levity of tongue 
Has filled her breast with false alarms — her 

gentle spirit wrung ; 
I feigned a tale of love for one more bcuu ful 

than she. 
And in my folly dwelt upon the love she bore 

for me. 

" I saw the start of wounded pride her lips for- 
bore to speak. 

The crimson flush that rose and dyed her 
marble brow and cheek. 

I marked them well, and marveled how her 
spirit served her need, 

As bending low her noble brow, she simply 
said: ' Indeed I' 

•• But well I know those heartless words, at 

heedless random thrown. 
Have pierced her bosom's tend'rest chords— I 

feel it by mine own. 
And by my pledge of 105'al love, and knightly 

honor too, 
I must unwind this web I wove, its evil work 

undo ! 

" Before the rounded moon goes down must 

I her presence gain, 
I would not give, for Roderick's crown, 

another night of pain ; 
Kildara is as sure and fleet as falcon on the 

wing, 
Nor shall he rest till at her feet this erring 

heart I fling.'" 

Out swept that steed through Ardagh's mead, 
by frowning Dunamace, 

Dunore, and passed with meteor speed the 
fertile vales of Leix,* 



With foaming flank and frenzied eye and 

lightning in his bound. 
And crossed, while yet the moon stood high, 
■ twelve Irish leagues of ground, 

But as he sped through Rynagh's hills, strange 

fears the knight assail. 
Why seem both vale and tower so still, their 

wonted lights so pale ? 
With throbbing brow and heart aflame he 

gamed the bannered hall. 
And there beheld that noble dame beneath 

the snow white pall ! 

They laid her where her fathers lie, within a 

sylvan dell, 
Where Brosna's waters wander by the shrine 

of All Saints' Well ; 
A sacred spot, by holy seers and good St. 

Kieran blessed. 
And to this day, through all the years, by 

pilgrim footsteps pressed. 

There raised that knight a house to God. 

beside her silent grave, 
And all the wealth by time bestowed to deck 

that shrine he gave ; 
And there, 'tis told, he breathed his last, his 

heart by sorrow riven. 
But who can tell what sighs were passed 

between that heart and heaven ! 

JOHN BOYLE. 



Pronounced Lace. 



ONLY SOME RELICS. 
A ring she wore — a jewel that ] 
The maiden beauty of her breast ; 
A glove our happy hands once drew 
From her small fingers veined with blue ; 
A ribbon that around her throat 
Loved in the dallying winds to float ; 
A golden clasp, that once had known 
The silken pressure of her zone; 
A little slipper with blue rosette. 
In which her fairy foot was set ; 
And one brown tress, through happy years 
Shading the shell-films of her ears — 
These, and an ivorytype's dull stain. 
Are all of our dear one that now remain ; 
All the dear relics that are left 
Of her by whose loss our hearts are cleft ; 
Leaving the world a dim, dead space 
Of cares and duties with little grace — 
A dull, dead level of weary years, 
In which no blossoming joy appears ; 



576 



POEMS Ol- I.OS. 



No gill with teeth like the rows of corn 
When you strip the ear as the summer is born ; 
And tresses of changing gold and brown 
Over shoulders of ivory shaken down ; 
And lips in whose arched and crimson bow 
All the flushing balms of the tropics glow ; 
And over whose dimpled cheeks, like light 
And shade over meadows, the thoughts take 

flight; 
Winged by her innocent, dancing eyes. 
With coyness and coquetry, smiles and sighs. 
Her voice was the hum of a summer wind 
When it breathes through a lattice with 

roses twined ; 
Her soul was as pure, as unsullied and white. 
As the chanting seraphs in robes of light ; 
And the kindness that dwelt in her heart. I 

deem. [stray gleam. 

Of the heaven she now dwells in was some 
Oh. loved and lost ! our soul's adored ! 
Our dove with silver wings — our bird ! 
Beauty embodied, and joy, and peace, [cease. 
Whose breath had a charm bidding sorrow 
Best gift that heaven to bless us gave, 
We cast this chaplet on thy grave. 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



Wild roses promising increase. 

Low beds of green, white-flowering moss. 

And over each a simple cross, 
A name, and — "May she rest in peace !" 



Of all who, tranquil here a space. 
Await in faith the second birth. 
Not one had pressed her hand on earth. 

Not one had gazed upon her face. 

But, oh I if eyes undimmed by sin [blue, 

Could pierce through heaven's unfathom'd 
We'd see those loved ones that we knew 

Welcome the little stranger in ! 

Maternal, sister-like they come. 
Their wills but echo now God's will. 
Yet with sweet human interest still 

They "ask a thousand things of home !' 

Now all is o'er ; we turn away 

To face life's daily toil again 

For yet a little while, and then 
Our turn shall come to rest as they. 



A CONVENT ELEGY. 
I. 
The young birds trill their sweetest tune; 
Like acolyte, the fresh'ning breeze 
Shakes incense from the hawthorn-trees — 
A beauteous, tardy May in June. 

But listen to the sound that swells ! 
A sound befitting ill the scene — 
That solemn dirge for what has been. 

The slow, sad swing of funeral bells. 

From out the open convent door. 

With crossand chant and murmured prayer. 

She comes into the sunny air. 
Conies forth, to enter in no more. 

And through the lawn, beneath the shade. 

And down the garden slopes we pass. 

Across the daisy-fretted grass. 
To where Ood's human seeds are laid. 

The " prodigal laburnum " there 

Strews its rich treasures on the way. 
Urging the f)asser-by to pay 

The golden largess of a prayer. 



Born on the soil Columba trod. 

Like him — the saint she loved the best- 
This gentle dove forsook her nest, 

Her home, her native land for God. 

Reversing the decree severe 
lona's saint so meekly bore, 
Self-e.\iled he on Scotland's shore. 

And she a willing exile here. 

L'nsparingly God's hand bereaves. 

She gave H im much^He asked for all : 
.AH human ties, however small. 

E'en the sweet bonds Religion weaves. 

So. far from all old friends, she slept. 
Strange hands upheld her dying head, 
.\nd strangers prayed around her bed, 

.■\nd strangers by her grave have wept. 

Strangers, yet sisters — many days 
Were needed not to make them love 
This gentle little dark-eyed dove. 

With all her gracious winning ways. 

Pious in simple, earnest style, 
.\ heart the slightest kindness stirred 
In death itself the cheerful word. 

And, when that failed, the radiant smile. 



ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 



577 



What wonder that her Lord, o'ercome 
By such meek resignation, sent 
To call her from her banishment 

And take her quickly to her home .' 



And now she rests where o'er her clay. 

Upon the fitful breezes borne, 

The Angelas at early morn. 
The vesper-bell at close of day. 

Shall sound their sweet accustomed peals 
From the old convent on the hill, 
Where life's quick pendulum beats still. 

While Time with noiseless footstep steals. 

And children's voices at their play. 
And often in the summer time 
The Rosary's familiar chime. 

Into God's garden plot may stray. 

Oh ! echoing thy latest breath. 
We pray thee, little sister dear. 
Remember us who linger here 

Now, and when comes the hour of death ! 

MARY STANISLAUS MCCARTHY. 



ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
He muses— not in scorn or mirth — ■ 

And fondly clasps one raven tress ; 
Still flames the spirit vision through 
Those deep-browed eyes of angry blue 
Too mighty for the mean of earth — 

Too clear for critic happiness. 

Now hums the past its ceaseless song. 
And thro' the chambers of his brain 

The tender light of parted days. 

Bright cordial smiles — old winning ways. 

Remembered tones unheeded long, 
Rise from the silent years again ; 

Till, slowly deepens o'er his face 
A mournful light, rare and divine, 

Like Death's last smile, as silently. 

And with a sad simplicity. 

His aged hand essays to trace 

That relic with one trembling line. 

" Only a woman's hair." No more. 
The golden dreams of pride are gone. 



And nought remains but this poor prize. 
Instinct with anguished memories; 
Life's tree is leafless now, and roar 
The bleak winds through its skeleton. 

The dusk cathedral glooms the while, 

The bells toll in the upper air ; 
And silvering down the mouldered walls. 
The winter moonlight coldly falls 
Through one old window in the aisle 

On one memorial tablet there. 

Ah. what were fame's great trumpet breath. 

The proud applause of mightiest men. 
The storm, the struggle, and the crown. 
The world that darkened in his frown.' — 
The love that he had scorned to death 
Were dearer than an empire then ! 

O wisdom, manhood, where were ye. 

Thus in caprice of power to move .' — 
To play with hearts whose truth ye tried, 
To watch, poor puppet of your pride. 
How long sweet, earnest constancy 
Would live with unrequited love. 

Alone, long, dreary years alone. 

His days went down the darkened sky, 

Racked with the heart's revenging war : 

A Saturn on his icy star, — 

God-like upon a ruined throne. 
Friendless in his supremacy ; 

Till last by that great brow there came 
Some angel pitying his distress. 

And tamed the soul that burned within. 

Sin-like revenging upon sin. 

And quenched that hell of clearest flame 
In ashes of forgetfulness. 

His spirit lives within his page : — 

Dissective subtlety of glance; 
Keen truth, to make the merriest mourn ; 
Fierce wit, that brightens but to burn. 
Are there ; and cold ironic rage, 

With'ring a world it views askance. 

What though among our warrior band 

An alien patriot he be. 
Whose combat clang for Ireland's right. 
In reason half, if half in spite.' 
Still shall we hang his mighty brand 

In freedom's sombre armory , 



578 



And when we pace along the shrine 
Thai coldly closed on his despair. 

View, from his anguished life apart. 

The passioned tremble of the heart 

That ripples in the little line 
•• Only a woman's hair," 

THOMAS C. IRWIN, 
J-'rom a I'otm on Swi/I. 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SOJtIiOH\ 



That fast expires, glimmering, cold and pale ! 
Ah, cruel I — see her lover's noble form 
Beside them, lying in a pool of blood. 
The golden-hilted poniard in his heart — 
The jewelled poniard which the poor lorn girl 
Had fastened, trembling, to her brother's side. 
Taking her farewell kiss! And now, behold. 
She draws it from the dead man's silent heart, 
How sadly and how calmly I and her eyes, 
i See how they gaze upon the glittering steel. 
In tearless, vacant stupor ! But an arm 
Enfolds her ; and with gentle force her form 
Is drawn away, and passively she yields, 
I As in a frightful nightmare, when the will 
' Is powerless, and we cannot strive or cry. 
For — lo, the sacred loveliness of grief I — 
The mother, at that piteous cry, had left 
Her fallen son, forgetting her own woes. 
With woman's noblest instinct ministering 
To sorrow not her own ; and from the field 



AMONG THE SLAIN. 
And the battle raged. 
And far away amid the purple glens 
The noise of onset murmured, like the roll 
Of a long wave that thunders on the shore. 
Heaving and falling, till it slowly ebbs, 
And softly ripples o'er the golden sands. 
But when the sun rose from the eastern sea. 
The Saxon victors proudly rode away. 
Leaving the mighty plain with slaughter The stricken creatures wandered, wailing low 

strewn. 
Armor and men and horses on the soil 



In awful ruin heaped ; and hour by hour 
The wailing women came ; and hour by hour 
The wounded warriors died ; and they that 

lived 
Unscathed by the fierce combat, bore away 
The dead and dying from the mournful field. 
Till the sun dipped behind the western hills. 
And twilight slowly deepened into gloom. 



In that deep anguish only known to God. 

KDMUNl) J. AKMSTRUNG. 
'GUnJa/i>iij,'A; a Slory of ll'icHo-.v." 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 



The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, 
The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; 
The maids are assembling with garlands of 

Behold her wandering, like a midnight ghost, ... .■ ' . .,- ■ ,, ., 

. . , , ■ ,,T. , J , And harp-strmgs are tremblmg m all the gay 

Amid the corpses ! Wherefore does she turn h ■ 

The pmewood torch to ever)' pallid face, [ 

Shuddering, and murmuring. "Thanks be ' gwell, swell thegay measure ! roll, trumpet and 

splendor they 



unto God 
They are not here I " And why that frenzied 
shriek 



drum ! 

'Mid greetings of pleasure 

come ! 



That makes the night air quiver, and the blood j^^ chancel is ready, the portal stands wide 

Of yon poor watcher o'er her fallen son p^^ the lord and the ladv. the bridegroom 

Run trebly cold ? .•Mas, and woe is me I ^^^ bride. 

How pale they glare, those faces of the dead. [ 

Around the fair-haired Eilleen 1 There he lies, What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight 

The father who had blest her ere he went. The future shall scatter o'er them in its flight ! 

His white locks stained with gore ; and by his What blissful caresses shall Fortune bestow. 

side Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as 

His valiant sons, how pallid, stiff and cold ! I the snow ! 

And lo. that youngest, fairest of them all. j 

His sister's smile upon his rigid lips. Before the high altar young Maud stands 

.And on that moveless breast— behold it there. ' array d ; 

The locket with the braid of golden hair, With accents that falter her promise is made — 

His sister'sgift in parting. stained and bruised. From father and mother for ever to part, 
And. in the dim light of the fallen torch j For him and no other to treasure her heart. 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 



The words are repeated, the bridal is done, 
The rite is completed — the two, they are one : 
The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart. 
That must not be broken till life shall depart. 

Hark I 'mid the gay clangor that compass'd 

their car. 
Loud accents in anger come mingling afar ! 
The foe's on the border, his weapons resound 
Where the lines in disorder unguarded are 

found. 

As wakes the good shepherd, the watchful 

and bold, 
When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the 

fold. 
So rises already the chief in his mail, 
While the new-married lady looks fainting 

and pale. 

" Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife. 

For the sister and mother, for children and 
wife ! 

O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and 
plain. 

Up, true men, and follow ! let dastards re- 
main I" 

Farrah ! to the battle ! they form into line — 
The shields, how they rattle ! the spears, how 
they shine ! [rue — 

Soon, soon shall the foeman his treachery 
On. burgher and yeoman, to die or to do ! 



The eve is declining in lone Malahide. 

The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the 

bride ; 
She marks them unheeding — her heart is afar. 
Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in 

the war. 

Hark ! loud from the mountain 'tis Victory's 
cry ! [sky ! 

O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the 
The foe has retreated ! he flies to the shore ; 
The spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er ! 

With foreheads unruffled the conquerors 

come — 
But why have they muffled the lance and the 

drum ? 
What form do they carry aloft on his shield ? 
And where does he tarry, the lord of the 

field? 



579 

Ve saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! 
In bridal adorning the star of the day : 
Now weep for the lover — his triumph is sped. 
His hope it is over ! the chieftain is dead ! 

But O for the maiden who mourns for that 
chief. 

With heart overladen and rending with grief! 

She sinks on the meadow in one morning- 
tide, 

A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride ! 

Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole ! 
Your comfort is rending the depths of her 

soul. 
True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride 
He died in his glory — but, O, he has died! 

The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now, — 
And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. 
That glance may for ever unaltered remain. 
But the Bridegroom will never return it again. 

The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, 
The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side ; 
The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from 

the green. 
For the sun has departed that brighten'd the 

scene ! 

Ev'n yet in that valley, though years have 

roU'd by. 
When through the wild sally the sea-breezes 

sigh, 
The peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the 

shade 
The tomb where the morrow saw Hussey 
d. 



How scant was the warning, how briefly re- 
veal 'd. 

Before on that morning death's chalice was 
fiU'd! 

The hero who drunk it there moulders in 
gloom. 

And the form of Maud Plunket weeps over 
his tomb. 

The stranger who wanders along the lone vale 
Still sighs while he ponders on that heavy 

tale: 
" Thus passes each pleasure that earth can 

supply — 
Thus joy has its measure — we live but to die!" 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 



58o 

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 

hundred isles, 
The summer sun is gleaming still through 

Gabriel's rough defiles — 
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a 

moulting bird, 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide 

is heard ; 
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children 

cease their play ; 
The gossips leave the little inn ; the house- 
holds kneel to pray— 
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily 

labor o'er — 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 

Baltimore. 

A deeper rest, a starry trance has come with 

midnight there ; 
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in 

earth, or sea, or air. 
The massive capes and ruined towers seem 

conscious of the calm ; 
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath- 
ing hea\')' balm. 
So still the night, these two long barks, 'round 

Dunashad that glide. 
Must trust their oars — methinks not few — 

against the ebbing tide — 
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must 

urge them to the shore — 
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs i 

in Baltimore ! 

All — all asleep within each roof along that ' 

rocky street. \ 

And these must be the lover's friends, with 

gently gliding feet — ' 

A stifled gasp — a dreamy noise I " The roof 

is in a flame !" 
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush 

maid, and sire, and dame — 
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the 

gleaming sabre's fall. 
And o'er each black and bearded face the 

white or crimson shawl — 
The yell of ".Mlah!" breaks above the pray'r, 

and shriek, and roar — 
Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of 

Baltimore ! 

Then flung the youth his naked hand against 
the shearing sword ; | 



/'oj:a/s of loss and sorrow. 



Then sprung the mother on the brand with 

which her son was gor'd : 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his 

grand-babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden, moaning fast, and 

nestled with the child ; 
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed 

with splashing heel. 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps 

his Syrian steel — | 

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and 

misers yield their store. 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack 

of Baltimore ! 

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the 

birds begin to sing — 
They see not now the milking maids — deserted 

is the spring 1 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from dis- 
tant Bandon town — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, 

that skiff from Affadown ; 
They only found the smoking walls, with 

neighbors' blood besprent. 
And on the strewed and trampled beach 

awhile they wildly went — 
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleir. 

and saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh I some must tug the galley's oar, and some 

must tend the steed — 
This boy will bear a Schcik's chibouk, and 

that a Bey's jerrecd. 
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous 

Dardanelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy 

dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is 

chosen for the Dey — 
She's safe — she's dead — she stabbed him in 

the midst of his Serai ; 
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble 

maid they bore. 
She only smiled — O'DriscoU's child — she 

thought of Baltimore. 

'Tis two long years since sunk the town 
beneath that bloody band, 

.And all around its trampled hearths a larger 
concourse stand. 

Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling 
wretch is seen — 



THE BURNING OF KILCOLEMAN. 



581 



'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan^ — he who steered 

the Algerine ! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a 

passing prayer. 
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a 

hundred there — 
Some muttered of M'Morrogh, who had 

brought the Norman o'er — 
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in 

Baltimore. 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



THE BURNING OF KILCOLEMAN.* 
No sound of life was coming 

From glen or tree or brake, 
Save the bittern's hollow booming 

Up from the reedy lake ; 
The golden light of sunset 

Was swallowed in the deep. 
And the night came down with a sullen frown 

On Houra's craggy steep. 

And Houra's hills are soundless : 

Bm, harki that trumpet blast! 
It fills that forest boundless. 

Rings round the summit vast; 
'Tis answered by another 

From the crest of Corrin Mor, 
And hark again, the pipe's wild strain 

By Bregoge's caverned shore ! 

O sweet at hush of even 

The trumpet's golden thrill. 
Grand 'neath the starry heaven 

The pibroch wild and shrill ! 
Yet all were pale with terror. 

The fearful and the bold. 
Who heard its tone that twilight hour 

In the Poet's frowning hold. 

Well might their hearts be beating. 

For up the mountain pass. 
By lake and river meeting. 

Came kern and galloglass. 
Breathing vengeance deadly 

Under the forest tree. 
To the wizard man who cast the ban 

On the minstrels bold and free ! 



* Kilcoleman Castle, in Cork, ttas for a time the res 
of the English poet Spenser, whose harshness towar 
Irish pi-ople brought about the occurrence narrated 



They gave no word of warning. 

Round still they came, and on. 
Door, wall, and rampart scorning, — 

They knew not he was gone ! — 
Gone fast and far that even. 

All secret as the wind. 
His treasures all in that castle tall, 

And his infant son behind! 

All still that castle hoarest, — 

Their pipes and horns were still. 
While gazed they through the forest 

Up glen and northern hill; 
Till from the Brehon circle 

On Corrin's crest of stone, 
A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre 

Up to the clouds was thrown. 

Then with a mighty blazing 

They answered — to the sky ; 
It dazzled their own gazing. 

So bright it rolled, and high; 
The Castle of the Poet. 

The man of endless fame, 
Soon hid its head in a mantle red 

Of fierce and rushing flame. 

Out burst the vassals, praying 

For mercy as they sped ; — 
■■Where was their master staying.' 

Where was the Poet fled .' " 
But hark ! that thrilling screaming. 

Over the crackling din ! — 
'Tis the Poet's child in its terror wild. 

The blazing tower within ! 

There was a warlike giant 

Amid the listening throng; 
He looked with face defiant 

On the flames so wild and strong; 
Then rushed into the castle. 

And up the rocky stair, 
But alas ! alas ! he could not pass 

To the burning infant there ! 

The wall was tottering under. 

And the flame was whirring round, 
The wall went down in thunder 

And dashed him to the ground ; 
Up in the burning chamber 

Forever died that scream ; 
And the fire sprang out with a wilder shout, 

And a fiercer, ghastlier gleam ! 



582 



POEMS OF LOSS A.\D SOJi/iOH'. 



It glared o'er hill and hollow. 

Up many a rocky bar, 
From ancient KilnamuUa 

To Darras Peak alar ; 
Then it heaved into the darkness 

With a final roar amain, 
And sank in gloom with a whirring boom. 

And all was dark again ! 

Away sped the galloglasses 

And kerns, all still amain. 
Through Houra's lonely passes. 

Wild, fierce, and reckless men. 
But such the Saxon made them. 

Poor sons of war and woe ; [knife 

So they venged their strife with flame and 

On his head long, long ago. 

RUliEKl DW^ER JOYCE. 



THE FISHERMEN OF WEXFORD. 

There is an old tradition sacred held in Wex- 
ford town, 

That says: "Upon St. Martin's eve no net 
shall be let down ; 

No fishermen of Wexford shall, upon that holy 
day. 

Set sail or cast a line within the scope of Wex- 
ford Bay." 

The tongue that framed the order, or the 
time, no one can tell ; 

And no one ever questioned, but the people 
kept it well. 

And never in man's memory was fisher known 
to leave 

The little town of Wexford on the good St. 
Martin's Eve. 

Alas ! alas for Wexford ! once upon that holy 

day 
Came a wondrous shoal of herring to the 

waters of the Ray. 
The fishers and their families stood out upon 

the beach. 
And all day watched with wistful eyes the 

wealth they might not reach. 
Such shoal was never seen before, and keen 

regrets went round — 
Alas! alas for Wexford. Hark I what is that 

grating sound ? 
The boats' keels on the shingle! Mothers! 

wives ! ye well may grieve, — 
The fishermen of Wexford mean to sail on 

Martin's Eve. 



•* Oh. stay ye !" cried the women wild. " Sui) ! 
cried the men white-haired ; 

" .\nd dare ye not to do this thing your fathers 
never dared. 

No man can thrive who tempts the Lord!" 
'• Away I" they cried : " the Lord 

Ne'er sent a shoal of fish but as a fisherman's 
reward." 

And scoflingly they said. "To-night our nets 
sljall sweep the Bay. 

And take the Saint who guards it, should he 
come across our way !" 

The keels have touched the water, and the 
crews are in each boat ; 

And on St. Martin's eve the Wexford fishers 
are afloat I 

The moon is shining coldly on the sea and on 
the land. 

On dark faces in the fishing-fleet and pale 
ones on the strand. 

As seaward go the daring boats, and heaven- 
ward the cries 

Of kneeling wives and mothers with uplifted 
hands and eyes. 

•' O Holy Virgin ! be their guard I " the weep- 
ing women cried ; 

The old men. sad and silent, watched the 
boats cleave through the tide. 

As past the farthest headland, past the light- 
house, in a line 

The fishing-fleet went seaward through the 
phosphor-lighted brine. 

Oh, pray, ye wives and mothers ! All your 

prayers they sorely need 
To sa\'e them from the wrath they've roused 

by their rebellious greed. 
Oh! white-haired men and little babes, and 

weeping sweethearts, pray 
To God to spare the fishermen to-night in 

Wexford Bay! 

The boats have reached good offing, and. as 
out the nets are thrown. 

The hearts ashore are chilled to hear the 
soughing sea-wind's moan . 

Like to a human heart that loved, and hoped 
for some return. 

To find at last but hatred, so the sea-wind 
seemed to mourn. 

But ah ! the Wexford fishermen ! their nets 
did scarcely sink 

One inch below the foam, when lo ! the dar- 
ing boatmen shrmk 



THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 



5S3 



With sudden awe and whitened Hps and glar- 
ing eyes agape, 

For breast-high, threatening, from the sea 
uprose a Human Shape! 

Beyond them — in the moonlight — hand up- 
raised and awful mien. 
Waving back and pointing landwards, breast 

high in the sea 'twas seen. 
Thrice it waved and thrice it pointed, — then, 

with clenched hand upraised. 
The awful shape went down before the fishers 

as they gazed ! 
Gleaming whitely through the water, fathoms 

deep they saw its frown, — 
They saw its white hand clenched above it, — 

sinking slowly down ! 
And then there was a rushing 'neath the 

boats, and every soul 
Was thrilled with greed : they knew it was 

the seaward-going shoal ! 

Defying the dread warning, every face was 

sternly set, 
And wildly did they ply the oar. and wildly 

haul the net. 
But two boats' crews obeyed the sign. — God- 
fearing men were they, — 
They cut their lines, and left their nets, and 

homeward sped away ; 
But darkly rising sternwards did God's wrath 

in tempest sweep. 
And they, of all the fishermen, that night 

escaped the deep. 
Oh, wives and mothers, sweethearts, sires ! 

well might ye mourn next day. 
For seventy fishers' corpses strewed the shores 

of Wexford Bay ! 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



THE LOST STEAMSHIP. 
" Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand. 

Tell me what is that far away. — 
There, where over the isle of sand 

Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray.' 
See ! it rocks with a ghastly life. 

Rising and rolling through clouds of spray. 
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife, — 

Tell me what is it. Fisherman, pray? " 

" That, 



sir, was a steamer stout 

As ever paddled around Cape Race ; 

And many's the wild and stormy bout [place; His face was white as the boiling tide 

She had with the winds, in that selfsame And she was clinging about his neck 



But her time was come ; and at ten o'clock 
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore; 

And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, 
And at dawn this morning she was no more." 

" Come, as you seem to know, good man. 

The terrible fate of this gallant ship. 
Tell me about her all that you can ; 

And here's my flask to moisten your lip. 
Tell me how many she had aboard, — 

Wives, and husbands, and lovers true. — 
How did it fare with her human hoard .' 

Lost she many, or lost she few?" 

" Master, I may not drink of your flask. 

Already too moist I feel my lip ; 
But I'm ready to do what else you ask. 

And spin you my yarn about the ship : 
'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night, 

When she struck the breakers and went 
ashore ; 
And scarce had broken the morning's light 

Than she sank in twelve feet of water or 



•• But long ere this they knew her doom. 

And the captain called all hands to prayer ; 
And solemnly over the ocean's boom 

Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. 
And round about the vessel there rose 

Tall plumes of spray as white as snow. 
Like angels in their ascension clothes, 

Waiting for those who prayed below. 

" So these three hundred people clung 

As well as they could to spar and rope ; 
With a word of prayer upon every tongue. 

Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. 
But there was no blubbering weak and wild. 

Of tearful faces I saw but one, 
A rough old salt, who cried like a child. 

And not for himself, but the captain's son, 

" The captain stood on the quarter-deck. 

Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand ; 
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, | 

Sometimes he sadly looked to land. | 

And often he smiled to cheer the crew — • ; 

But, Lord ! the smile was terrible grim — 
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew ; 

And that was the last they saw of him. 



I saw one young fellow with his bride. 
Standing amidships upon the wreck ; 



POEMS OF LOSS AXD SOKKOV, 



5S4 



And 1 saw them try to say good-bye. 

But neither could hear the other speak; 
So they floated away through the sea to die — 

Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek. 

'• And there was a child, but eight at best, 

Who went his way in a sea she shipped ; 
All the while holding upon his breast 

A little red parrot whose wings were clipped. 
And as the boy and the bird went by, 

Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, [cry. 
They were gripped by a man. with a drowning 

And together the three went down to rest. 

'■ And so the crew went one by one, 

Some with gladness and few with fear; 
Cold and hardship such work had done [near. 

That few seemed frightened when death was 
Thus every soul on board went down — 

Sailor and passenger, little and great ; 
The last that sank was a man of my town. 

A capital swimmer — the second mate." 

" Now, lonely fisherman, who are you 

That say you saw this terrible wreck.' 
How do 1 know what you say is true. 

When every mortal was swept from the deck ? 
Where were you in that hour of death .' 

How did you learn what you relate ? " 
His answer came in an under breath,— 

"Master, I was the second mate I" 

FITZ JAMES O'UKIEX. 



DUBLIN BAY. 
He sail'd away in a gallant bark, 

Roy Neill and his fair young bride ; 
He had ventur'd all in that bounding ark 

That danced o'er the silver tide. 
But his heart was young and his spirit light. 

And he dashed the tear away, 
As he watched the shore recede from sight 

Of his own sweet Dublin Bay. 

Three days they sail'd. and a storm arose. 

And the lightning swept the deep. 
And the thunder-crash broke the short repose, 

Of the weary sea-boy's sleep. 
Roy Neill, he clasped his weeping bride. 

And he kiss'd her tears away, 
•• O love, 'twas a fatal hour," she cried, 

•• When we left sweet Dublin Bay." 

On the crowded deck of the doomed ship 
Some stood in their mute despair ; 



.\nd some more calm, with a holy lip. 

Sought the God of the storm in prayer. 
• She has struck on the rock !" the 
cried. 

In the breath of iheir wild dismay ; [bride. 
And the ship went down, and the fair young 

That sailed from Dublin Bay. 

JULIA CRAWFORD. 



LOST, LOST ARMADA I 
One by one men die on shore. 

Falling as the brown leaves fall ; 
Daily some one doth deplore 

A sleeper in a sable pall. 
Slowly single coffins pass 
To cold crj'pts beneath the grass; 
But on sea— oh. misery I 
Death is frantic — death is free ; 
So they found who sailed «ith thee. 
Lost, lost Armada ! 

What an Oriental show 

Thine was on the Biscayan tide ; 
Well might Philip's bosom glow 

When his power you glorified : — 
Indian wealth and Flemish skill, 
Spanish pride and Roman will 
Borne on ever)' carvel's prow ; 
Where are all your splendors now ? 
Fallen like gems from Philip's brow, 
Lost, lost Armada ! 

Water-demons beat the deep — 

Lir, the sea-god, waked in rage — 
Sped his couriers forth from sleep- 
None his anger durst assuage; 
Then the god-demented seas 
Whitened round the Hebrides: 
On Albyn's rocks, on Erin's sands; 
Banshees wrung their briny hands. 
Keening for your perished bands. 
Lost, lost Armada ! 

Fifteen hundred men of Spain 
Sunk in sight of Knocknarea ; 

Twice a thousand strove in vain 
To reach your harbors. Tyrawley ! 

Oh I they have not even a grave ! 

In the land they came to save ; 

Only penitent ocean moans 

O'er their white, far-drifting bones 

Blending with it Erin's groans. 
Lost, lost Armada ! 

TIIO.MAS U'ARCY McGEE. 



THE THREE CAN NETS. 



585 



THE WRECK OF THE AIDEEN. 
Is it cure me, docther, darlin' ? an ould boy of 

siventy-four. 
Afther soakin'off Berehaven three and thirty 

hour and more, 
Wid no other navigation underneath me but 

an oar. 

God incrase ye. but it's only half myself is 

livin' still. 
An' there's mountin' slow but surely to my 

heart the dyin' chill ; 
God incrase ye foryour goodness, but I'm past 

all mortial skill. 

But ye'U surely let them lift me, won't you, 
docther, from below? 

Ye'll let them lift me surely — very soft and 
ver)' slow — 

To see my ould ship, Aideen, wanst agin be- 
fore I go } 

Lay my head upon your shoulder; thank ye 

kindly, docther. dear. 
Take me now; God bless ye. cap'n ! now 

together I sorra fear ! 
Have no dread that ye'll distress me — now. 

agin, ochone ! I see her. 

Ologone ! my Aideen's Aideen, christened by 

her laughin' lips, 
■Wid a sprinkle from her finger as ye started 

from the slips. 
Thirty years ago come Shrovetide, like a swan 

among the ships. 

And we both were constant to ye till the 

bitther. bitther day. 
Whin the typhus took my darlin,' and she 

pined and pined away, 
Till yourself's the only sweetheart that was 

left me on the say. 

So through fair and foul we'd travel, you and 

I thin, usen't we.' 
The same ould coorse from Galway Bay by 

Limerick and Tralee. 
Till this storm it shook me overboard, and 

murthered you, machree. 

But now, agra,the unruly wind has flown into 

the west. 
And the silver moon is shinin' soft upon the 

ocean's breast, [our rest. 

Like Aideen's smilin' spirit come to call us to 



Still the sight is growin' darker, and I cannot 

rightly hear ; 
The say's too cold for one so old ; O, save me, 

cap'n, dear ! 
Now it's growin' bright and warm again, and 

Aideen, Aideen's here! 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



AFTER THE STORM. 
Now that the wind is tamed and broken, 

And day gleams over the lea. 

Row, row, for the one you love 

Was out on the raging sea : 

Row, row. row, 

Sturdy and brave o'er the treacherous wave, 

Hope like a beacon before. 

Row. sailor, row, 
Out to the sea from the shore ! 

O. the oar that was once so merry, 

O. but the mournful oar ! 
Row, row ; God steady your arm 
To the dark and desolate shore : 

Row, row, row. [head 

With your own love dead, and her wet gold 
Laid there at rest on your knee. 
Row, sailor, row. 
Back to the shore from the sea ! 

LOUISE LMOGEN GUINEY. 



THE THREE GANNETS. 
On a wrinkled rock, in a distant sea. 

Three white gannets sat in the sun ; [fine. 
They shook the brine from their feathers so 

And lazily, one by one, 
They sunnily slept— while the tempest crept. 

In a painted boat, on a distant sea. 

Three fowlers sailed merrily on. 
And each took aim. as he came near the game. 

And the gannets fell, one by one. 
And fluttered and died — while the tempest 
sighed. 

Then a cloud came over the distant sea. 

A darkness came over the sun, 
And a storm-wind smote on the painted boat, 

And the fowlers sank, one by one, 
Down, down with their craft — while the tem- 
pest laughed. 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



586 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SOU HO IV. 



FAREWELL. The sacred soil our fathers owned, the gr 

Oh. Gramachree! the sun of spring is bright i'«" ^o'd oar dead.' 



upon thy soil. 



Must all the ties of happy years be roughly 



The corn is springing in the fields where we 

no more may toil, 
The chestnut boughs are covered thick with 

budding cone and leaf ; 
But oh I the fairer thou dost seem, the darker 

is our grief. 
For we, who would have shed our blood for 

love of thy dear shore. I 

Are looking sadly on the scenes we shall fa^'e^e'l ' the wind blows fresh and strong 



rent at last. 

And Fortune on a foreign shore her hapless 
victims cast? 

Oh I muSl the sharp and bitter pangs of rest- 
less memory 

Be all that, in the years to come, our hearts 
shall hold of thee .' 



behold no more. 

We turn to hill, and vale, and wood, with dim 

and lingering gaze ; 
We see the golden West o'erspread with 

evening's crimson haze. 
The garden hedgerows shining white with 

flakes of hawthorn flow'rs. 
The homes where we have lived and loved, 

through all life's bygone hours ; 
We hear the carol of the lark, high in the 

clear blue sky. [by. 

And the ripple of the river as it swiftly glideth 

The summer days shall flush the earth with 

rich and glowing bloom. 
The full-leaved boughs athwart the grass shall 

cast their waving gloom. 
The lilies, resting on their leaves, shall heave j And never more Fll see you— O, never, ast/iore 

upon the stream, | 

And the wild heather on the hills with purple | 

blossoms gleam. 



another dawn shall see 
The ocean heaving round our ship, the broad 

sails swelling free. 
Wealth may be ours in days to come, but 

wealth can have no pow'r 
To make us careless of the pangs of this last 

parting hour. 
May peace and blessing. Gramachree. be with 

thy verdant shore '. 
And He who rules the wjnd and waves be with 

thee evermore I 

A. M. MiNsri:k. 



THE LAST REQUEST. 
You're goin' away, alaniia, over the stormy 



macliree 

I'm sick with sorrow — sorrow as 
black as night ; 



And on the air shall ring the laugh of chil- ; Mabouc'tal goes to-morrow, by the blessed 



drenat their play. 
But dark and cold our hearths shall be — and 
we far, far away. 



mornin's light. 



O, once I thought, alaiina. you'd bear me to 
I the grave. 

Oh : many a day, for ever gone, we'\e stood % »^''e side of your angel sisters, before you'd 

where now we stand, cross the wave ; 

Our breasts high heaving with the pride wo Down to the green old churchyard, where the 



felt in our own land. 
And watching through the swaying boughs 

the curling smoke arise 
From roofs that sheltered tender hearts and 

soft and loving eyes. 
But now our homes are desolate, and ruin 

spreads her pall 
.Alike upon the peasant's cot and on the 

master's hall. 



trees' dark shadows fall- 
But now, lulioria .' you're goin', you'll not be 
there at all. 



Oh. Erin ! Erin ! must 
longer tread 



The strangers' hands must lay me down to my 

last silent sleep. 
And. Shemus, you'll not know it beyond the 

rolHn' deep. 
O. liluc-lin! dheeliit'.' avouriu-fii. why do you 

go away, 
we go? — must we no Till you'll see the poor old mother stretched 

in the churchyard clay ? 



CAOCH THE PIPER. 



587 



My heart is breakiii', alanna, but I mustn't 

tell you so. 
For I see by your dark, dark sorrow, that your 

own poor heart is low. 
I thought I'd bear it better, to cheer you on 

your way ; 
But, achorra! achorra.' you're goin'. and I'll 

soon be in the clay ' 

God's blessin' be with you. Shenius ! Sure. 

you'll come back again. 
When your curls of brown are snowy, to rest 

with your mother then, 
Down in the green old churchyard, where the 

trees' dark shadows fall — 
Asthorach! in the strangers' land you couldn't 

sleep at all. 

WILLIAM KENEALLY. 



CAOCH* THE PIPER. 
One winter's day, long, long ago. 

When I was a little fellow. 
A piper wandered to our door, 

Gray-headed, blind, and yellow : 
And, oh ' how glad was my young heart. 

Though earth and sky looked dreary. 
To see the stranger and his dog — 

Poor Pinch, and Caoch O'Leary. 

And when he stowed away his bag, 

Crossed-barred with green and yellow, 
I thought and said. In Ireland's ground 

There's not so fine a fellow. 
And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee. 

And Eily, Kate, and Marj', 
Rushed in, with panting haste, to see 

And welcome Caoch O'Leary. 

Oh! God be with those happy times ! 

Oh ! God be with my childhood I 
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day — 

Bird-nesting in the wild-wood. 
I'll not forget those sunny hours, 

However years may vary ; 
I'll not forget my early friends. 

Nor honest Caoch O'Learj'. 

Poor Caoch, and Pinch, slept well that night. 

And in the morning early 
He called me up to hear him play 

"The Wind that Shakes the Barley; " 



Pronounced Kay-uch ; meaning blind. 



And then he stroked my flaxen hair. 
And cried, " God mark my deary ! " 

And how I wept when he said, " Farewell, 
And think of Caoch O'Leary I " 

And seasons came and went, and still 

Old Caoch was not forgotten. 
Although we thought him dead and gone, 

And in the cold grave rotten ; 
And often, when I walked and talked 

With Eily, Kate, and Mary, 
We thought of childhood's rosy hours. 

And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. 

Well — twenty summers had gone past. 

And June's red sun was sinking. 
When I, a man, sat by my door 

Of twenty sad things thinking. 
A little dog came up the way, 

His gait was slow and weary, 
And at his tail a lame man limped — 

'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary! 

Old Caoch, but, oh ! how woe-begone ! 

His form is bowed and bending. 
His fleshless hands are stifT and wan. 

Ay — Time is even blending 
The colors on his thread-bare bag — 

And Pinch is twice as hairy 
And thin-spare as when first I saw 

Himself and Caoch O'Leary. 

" God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried, 

" Far, far be hate's black viper ! 
Does any body here about. 

Remember Caoch the Piper .^ " 
With swelling heart I grasped his hand ; 

The old man murmured " Deary! 
Are you the silk)'-headed child 

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary? " 

"Yes, yes," I said; the wanderer wept 

As if his heart was breaking — 
"And where, a vliic tnachrec," he sobbed, 

" Is all the merry-making 
I found here twenty years ago.' " — 

" My tale," I sighed, " might weary, 
Enough to say — there's none but me 

To welcome Caoch O'Leary." 

" Vo. Vo, Vo ! " the old man cried. 
And wrung his hands in sorrow, 

" Pray lead me in, asthore mac/iree. 
And I'll go home to-morrow. 



588 



My peace is made— I'll calmly leave 
This world so cold and drearj', 

And you shall keep my pipes and dog, 
And pray for Caoch O'Leary." 

With Pinch. I watched his bed that night, 

Next day, his wish was granted ; 
He died — and Father James was brought, 

And the Requiem Mass was chanted. 
The neighbors came ; we dug his grave 

Near Eily. Kate and Mary. 
And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep — 

God rest you, Caoch O'Leary ! 

JOHN KEF.GAN. 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



THE BLACK 'FORTY-SIX. 
Out away across the river. 

Where the purple mountains meet. 
There's as green a wood as iver. 

Fenced you from the flamin' heat. 
And opposite, up the mountain. 

Seven ancient cells ye'll see. 
And. below, a holy fountain 

Sheltered by a sacred tree ; 
While between, across the tillage. 

Two boreens full up wid broom 
Draw ye down into a village 

All in ruin on the coom ; 

For the most heart-brakin' story 

Of the fearful famine year 
On the silent wreck before ye 

You may read charactered clear. 
Yous are young, too young for ever 

To rec'llect the bitter blight. 
How it crep" across the River 

Unbeknownst beneath the night; 
Till we woke up in the mornin'. 

And beheld our country's curse 
Wave abroad its heavy warnin'. 

Like the white plumes of a hearse. 

To our gardens, heavy-hearted. 

In that dreadful summer's dawn. 
Young and ould away we started 

Wid the basket and the slan. 
But the heart within the bosom 

Gave one leap of awful dread 
At each darlin' pratee blossom. 

White and purple, lyin' dead, 
Down we dug, but only scattered 

Poisoned spuds along the slope ; 
Though each ridge in vain it flattered 

Our poor hearts' revivin' hope- 



But the desperate toil we'd double 

On into the evenin' shades ; 
Till the earth to share our trouble 

Shook beneath our groanin' spades 
Till a mist across the meadows 

From the graveyard rose and sprearl 
And 'twas rumored ghostly shadows. 

Phantoms of our fathers dead. 
Moved among us, wildly sharin' 

In the women's sobs and sighs. 
And our stony, still despairin'. 

Till night covered up the skies. 

Thin we knew for bitter certain 

That the vinom-breathin' cloud 
Closin' still its cruel curtain. 

Surely yet would be our shroud. 
And the fearful sights did folly. 

Och! no voice could rightly tell. 
But that constant, melancholy 

Murmur of the passin' bell ; 
Till to toll it none among us 

Strong enough at last was found, 
And a silence overhung us 

AwfuUer nor any sound. 

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 



EVICTED. 
It was not much of a place, you say. [it ; 

And we needn't be breakin' our hearts about 
That's true ; it was poor enough ever)' way. 

But what are we goin' to do without it? 
Sure, it was the only home we had. [us : — 

And the home of the poor old people before 
Ah. sir. but the heart must be dark and bad 

That takes what the whole world can't 
restore us I 

When times were better, and 1 was young. 

Before the famine and dreadful fever. 
It's many a merry old song was sung 

Within those walls that are gone forever; 
An' 'tis many a frolicsome hour we spent. 

Strong bomhals and lollt'ens all glad together. 
Beside the hearth where a true content 

Made pleasant the wildest wintry weather. 

It was there our simple marriage feast 

Was spread, and the kindly jest passed 

lightly. 

With the neighbors round, and the blessed 

priest. [brightly ; 

And the smiles of friendship beamin 



THE POOR MAN'S DARLING. 



589 



And 'twas there our first poor darlin' died, 
(Hush, Mary a/anna/i, don't be cryin'. 

Sure Heaven is just, and the best are tried !) — 
There, where the rafters now are lyin'. 

When lords and ladies, the great and high, 

Were wastin' riches in mirth and riot, 
And men and women were left to die 

For food, not havin' wherewith to buy it. 
Then gaunt-faced hunger was often there. 

And sickness, sorrow, and sore denial — 
The pain that follows the steps of care. 

And many a bitter and darksome trial ! 

But still, thro' all that was drear and sad. 

Some comfort ever remained to cheer us — 
A roof to shelter the achin' head. 

And the darlin' childhei always near us ! 
But now, ah now, with the childher gone 

To lands where the old may be forsaken. 
And the home a ruin of thatch and stone. 

Is it strange that our hearts are almost 
breakin' 

God pity the poor ! it s many a load 

Fate bids them carry, tho' weak and weary. 
Along a rugged and cheerless road 

That fades in a future dim and dreary ! 
And Heaven have mercy on the great, 

When splendor, station, and wealth and 
power, 
All darkly vanish, and, soon or late. 

At the dreadful Judgment Seat they cower. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



WILLIE'S MOTHER. 
An' so yer moment has come for sailin', 

A bitther moment, oh, Willie dear! 
But Where's the use of yer mother's wailin' 

There's nothin', darlin', to howld ye here 
There's little labor that's worth the doin'. 

An' happy are they can rise an' go. — 
The poor ould counthry has gone to ruin ; 

But, och, it's hard, man, to lave her so ! 



But time is passin' — oh, Willie — Willie ! — 

An' I, dear help me, what ccm I say? 
Ough ! you'll be kind to that weepin' lily. 

That's lavin' all for yerself th' day ! 
An' whether, jewel, ye sweat an' swelther. 

Or march a prince thro' yer marvle halls, 
Ye wont forget, man, the poor ould shelther. 

An' her that rocked ye within its walls ! 

From that big brow, then, my yellow yarlin', 

One curlin' sunbame to faste my eye ; [lin'. 
And when they've waked me, my Willie, dar- 

ril take it with me to where I'll lie — 
To where I'll lie ! But for that last lyin', 

Tho' God's sthrong angels should come an' 
Who'd kiss the cowld lips of her a-dyin' [care. 

Like him, achora, who can't be there } 

Don't kill yer mother with axin' pardon — 

Is't you, my snow-flake— my spotless child ! 
Ough, cowld wide worl'. yer his pratie garden, 

Who never grieved me with gloom or guile 1 
One kiss — the last one ! Ah, God, mavourneen, 

How like this moment the face that's gone ! 
Yer father's, dear, at yer every turnin' — 

Yer father's eyes an' yer father's han' ! 

A moment, Willie! I'm feelin' wakely. 

I'll lane a thrifle upon yer arm ; 
God help them, dear, that be ould an sickly. 

They need the han' that's both thrue an' 
warm ! 
For what yer own was the Lord reward ye. 

An' be yer keeper both night an' day. 
May all the angels in heaven guard ye ! 

Now. lave me, jewel! — away — away ! 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



THE POOR MAN'S DARLING. 
Why did you leave me. asthore maclirce .' 
You were life and light, you were all to me ; 
Oh, our hearts are sad, and our cot is lone. 
For we miss your face by the old hearthstone. 



The patch of groun that we've still the pride 

Is but a patch, dear, when all is done ; [in. 

And the cowld bare walls that yer father died 
Can barely aqual the wants of one. 

'Tis true that Jemmie, yer slavin' brother. 
Has still a home there, however low; [ther. 

But when he shares with your poor ould mo- 
God knows there's little to come or go. 



We cannot laugh, for we do not hear 
Your merry laugh, love, so soft and clear ; 
We never dance, as we danced of yore. 
When your little feet beat the cabin floor. 

But we gather round the fire at night, 
And the white walls gleam in the ruddy light ; 
There we see your cloak and your little chair — 
But oh, my darling, you are not there ! 



590 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



Your prayer-book is faded, old and brown- 
Here and there, as you left them, the leavt 

turned down ; 
And oh. my darlint;. I even trace 
Your linger-marks in some well-worn place. 

Then each faded leaf I fondly kiss ; 

Oh. no relic of old is so dear as this ! 

And I weep, my darling, when none are near, 

O'er the little fingers that rested here. 

My gentle Eily. you came to me 

In the cold, dark hour of adversity ; 

We were very poor, but a jewel rare [there. 

Shone on our hearth, love, when you were 

Dearer you grew to our hearts each day — 
Every cold, harsh thought, love, you smiled 

away ; 
And each want in our love we soon forgot, 
For you brought content to our humble cot. 

Light was my heart as I toiled away ; 
For I thought of you as 1 tossed the hay ; 
And the fairest blossoms that round me grew. 
My own little darling, I kept for you. 

Blithely I sang when my toil was o'er. 
As I sauntered on to our cabin door; 
For I saw in the shade of the old ash-tree 
Your smiling face looking out for me. 

Ah, me I how your sweet blue eyes would shine 
As I climbed the hill with your hand in mine ; 
But you talked so wise that you made me start. 
And clasp you close to my trembling heart. 

The golden .Autumn glided past. 
And the dreaded Winter came on at last; 
While smaller each day grew our little store, 
Till the last had gone and we had no more. 

Hunger, my darling, is hard to hear ; 
Still, without murmur, you bore your share ; 
Like a patient spirit you hovered near. 
In want and sorrow our hearts to cheer. 

Katey and Mary would cry for bread. 

But you laughed and danced, love, and sang 

instead 
Oh. dear little heart! you were kind and 

brave ; 
You knew there was none, so you did not 

crave. 



You sang when your voice was faint and 

weak. 
When the bloom had flown from your fair 

round cheek ; 
In your tiny breast gnawed the hungry pain. 
But your lips, my darling, would not com- 
1 plain. 

Oh, 'twas sweet to feel your soft arms twine, 
' And your warm young face pressing close to 

mine. 
" .Are you hungry, love .' " I would whisper low ; 
But you shook your head, and you answered 
• No.' 

My darling! I saw you fade away 
Like the last soft glance of the closing day ; 
.As the dying note of some magic strain 
That charms the heart, then is hushed again. 

The shadows of death, love, dimmed your 

eyes'; 
As the dark clouds passed o'er the sunny 

skies; 
And the drooping lids o'er those sweet eyes 

fell. 
At the last soft stroke of the vesper bell. 

A little sigh — it was all 1 heard — 
Like the fluttering wing of a captive bird ; 
And a sobbing voice from behind the bed. 
Saying: " Father, father, is Eily dead.'" 

.\NUNV.MOUS. 



THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S LAMENT. 
I 

I'm sittin' on the stile. Mar\'. 
Where we sat side by side 
On a bright May mornin' long ago. 

When first you were my bride : 
The corn was springin' fresh and green, 

.And the lark sang loud and high — 
And the red was on your lip. Mary, 
I And the love-light in your eye. 

The place is little changed. Mary. 
I The day is bright as then, 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again ; 
Rut I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 

.And your breath, warm on my cheek. 
And 1 still keep list'nin' for the words 
I You never more will sfX-'ak. 



591 



'Tis but a step down yonder lane. 

And the little church stands near. 
The church where we were wed, Mary, 

I see the spire from here. 
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest — 
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep 

With your baby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary. 

For the poor make no new friends. 
But O ! they love the better still. 

The few our Father sends ! 
And you were all / had, Marj'. 

My blessin' and my pride ; 
There's nothing left to care for now. 

Since my poor Mary died. 

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul. 

And my arm's young strength was gone ; 
There was comfort ever on your lip. 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you. Mary, for that same. 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break, 
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, 

And you hid it for ///y sake I 
I bless you for the pleasant word. 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
O ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can't reach you more ! 

I'm biddin' you a long farewell. 

My Mary — kind and true ! 
But I'll not forget _)•()«. darling! 

In the land I'm goin' to ; 
They say there's bread and work for all. 

And the sun shines always there — 
But I'll not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair ! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I'll sit, and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies ; 
And I'll think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side : [morn. 

And the springin' corn, and the bright May 

When first you were my bride. 

LADY DUFFERIN. 



PEGGY. 



An' so poor Peggy isdead amost, an' shegoin' 

on eighty-one. 
The light of heaven to her poor sowl. an' all 

that is dead an' gone ! 

An if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity 

the likes of me. 
For she seemed like one that lived in thought 

with a saintly company. 

Her voice it was always mild and low. it was 
loudest when she'd pray. 

An' she never put the weighty word on the 
one that went astray. 

She'd share the bit an' the sup she'd get. an' 
often she made me weep 

For my poor sowl when I hear her sayin' her 
prayers an' she fast asleep. 

But many's the cross came on her since the 
day she was made a bride. 

An' little we thought that pleasant morn she'd 
beg before she died. 

For she had a share of money in bank, an' he 
had the snug warm place, 

A likely boiiclial oge he was, an' 'twas she had 
the purty face. 

Sure, very well I remember her when I was a 

small colleen. 
There wasn't a lighter heart or step to dance 

a jig on the green. 

But. mavronc. the years brought trouble an' 

death, sweet praises be to God. 
Her man an' her childher one by one were 
hidden beneath the sod. 

An' then the land was taken away, for her 
hope an' help was gone. 

To see her quenchin' her own firelight would 
move the heart of a stone. 

You'd never hear a grumble from her, she'd 
spin, an' she'd knit the sock ; 

She always tried to help herself, for she came 
of a decent stock. 

An' the neighbors then were kind to her as 
she went from door to door. 

They used to think a saint came in when she 
stood on the kitchen floor. 



59- 



t'uKMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



You'd never hear sad words from her, she'd j 
neither lament nor moan, i 

■ The Lord He is always good," she'd say. 
■■ an' He only took His own." , 

Soon she'll stand by the Lord hei^elf on the 
shores of eternity, | 

An' if she doesn't see glory bright, God pity 
the likes of me. 

ATTIE O'BRIEN. 



IN GRIEFS UNREST. 
Sad summer days, your lingering footsteps 
creep 
With languorous pauses through low-breath- 
ing woods. 
That wave and beckon into solitudes 
Of golden silences where soft airs sleep. 

Sad summer nighu, your lovely skies are pale 
From the dead heart of the impassioned 

noon ; 
L^ft to the colder glory of the moon. | 

In your blue deserts low winds seem to wail. , 

Sad summer streams, that struggle to the sea, ' 

With faint complaining when your course is | 

stayed ] 

By rock or reed, your strong desire delayed 

To lose yourselves in deep immensity. 

Sad summer sounds of wooing birds that 
mourn 
With intermittent sweetness for their mate. 
And nightingales that sing disconsolate. 
Bruising their tender breasts against the 
thorn. 

Ah. saddest days to those in grief's unrest. 
Whose souls have shut above an aching 

wound. 
Who feel no warmth from light that falls 
around. 
But fain would lie within the earth's cold 
breast. 

Better that rushing winds and beating rain. 
And the red lightning leaping from the 

cloud. 
Should play above the head by sorrow bowed 
Than summer's sun which comes to them in 
vain. 

ATllE O'BRIEN. 



THE DYING GIRU 
From a Munster vale they brought her. 

From the pure and balmy air. 
An Ormond peasant's daughter. 

With blue eyes and golden hair. 
They brought her to the city. 

And she faded slowly there. 
Consumption has no pity 

For blue eyes and golden hair. 

When I saw her first reclining. 

Her lips were moved in prayer. 
And the setting sun was shining 

On her loosened golden hair. 
When our kindly glances met her. 

Deadly brilliant was her eye. 
And she said that she was better. 

While we knew that she must die. 

She speaks of Munster valleys. 

The patron, dance and fair. 
And her fhin hand feebly dallies 

With her scattered golden hair. 
When silently we listened 

To her breath with quiet care. 
Her eyes with wonder glistened. 

And she asked us what was there. 

The poor thing smiled to ask it. 

And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
Like gems within a casket. 

A string of pearlets rare. 
We said that we w^ere tr)-ing 

By the gushing of her blood. 
And the time she took in sighing. 

To know if she were good. 

Well, she smiled and chatted gayly, 

Tho' we saw in mute despair 
The hectic brighten daily. 

And the death-dew on her hair. 
And oft with wasted fingers 

Beating time upon the bed. 
O'er some old tune she lingers. 

And bows her golden head. 

At length the harp is broken. 

And the spirit in its strings. 
As the last decree isspoken. 

To its source exultant springs. 
Descending swiftly from the skies. 

Her guardian angel came ; 
He struck God's lightning from her eyes. 

And bore Him back the flame. 



THE DEATH OF EILY. 



593 



Before the sun had risen 

Thro' the lark-loved morning air, 
Her young soul left its prison, 

Undefiled by sin or care. 
I stood beside the couch in tears, 

Where pale and calm she slept, 
And tho' I've gazed on death for years, 

I blush not that I wept. 
I checked with effort pity's sighs, 

And left the matron there, 
To close the curtains of her eyes. 

And bind her golden hair. 

RICHARIl D.\I,Tl_)N WILLIAMS. 



THE IRISH COTTIER'S DEATH.* 
The blameless Cottier, wha his youth had 

pass'd 
In temperance, and felt few pains when auld 
The prey o' pleurisy lies low at last, 
And aft his thoughts are by delirum thrall'd ; 
Yet while he raves he prays in words weel 

wal'd. 
An' mutters thro' his sleep o' truth an' right ; 
An' after pondering deep, the weans are tauld 
The readiest way he thinks they justly might 
Support themsel's thro' life when he shall 

sink in night. 

Rang'd roun' the hearth, whaur he presides 

nae mair, 
Th'inquirin nybers mourn their sufferin' frien'; 
An' now an' then divert awa their care 
15y tellin' tales to please some glaiket wean, 
Wha's e'e soon fills whan tauld about the pain 
Its sire endures, an' what his loss wad be; 
An' much they say. but a', alas ! in vain, [see 
To soothe the mither. wha ha'f pleas'd could 
Her partner eased by death, though for his 

life she'd dee. 

An' while they're provin' that his end is sure. 
By strange ill omens — to assuage his smart 
The minister comes in, wha to the poor 
Without a fee performs the doctor's part ; 
An' while wi' hope he soothes the sufferer's 
An gies a cheap safe recipe, they try [heart, 
To quat braid Scotch, a task that foils their 

art; 
For while they join his converse, vain tho' shy 
They monie a'lang learn'd word misca' an' 

misapply. 



An' lo ! the sick man's dyin' words to tend, 
Th' alarm'd auld circle gather roun' an" weep: 
Deceiv'd by hope, they thought till now he'd 

mend. 
But he thought lang in death's embrace to 

sleep. 
" Let ithers will," he says, " a golden heap, 
I can but lea' my blessin' an' advice. — 
Shield your poor mither, an' her counsel keep; 
An' you, my senior sons, that ay were wise. 
Do for my late-born babes, an' train them for 

the skies. 

" Be honest an' obligin' ; if ye thrive. 

Be meek ; an" firm when crasses come your 

road ; 
Should rude men wrang ye, to forgi'e them 

strive. 
An' gratefu' be for benefits bestowed : [load. 
Scorn nae poor man wha bears oppression's 
Nor meanly cringe for favors frae the proud ; — 
Inae short sentence, serve baith man an' Gud ; 
Sae when your clay lies mould'rin in a shroud. 
Your saul shall soar to heaven, an' care na 

mair becloud." 

His strength here fail'd, but still affection's e'e 
Spak on, — a moment motionless he lay; 
Bade peace be wi' them, turned his head awee. 
An' passed through death's dark vale without 

dismay. 
The speechless widow watch'd the stifi'nin' 

clay. 
An' shed some nat'ral tears — rack'd, j'et re- 
sign 'd ; 
To loud laments the orphan group gied way 
An' mourn'd, unfelt, the wants and wrangs 

they'd find. 
Flung friendless on the warl, that's seldom 
unco kind. 

J.\MES ORR. 



THE DEATH OF EILY. 
"Maura, the child is dead, our Eily bhan. 

Last night I saw the angels at the door ; 
And Eily saw them too : her cheeks grew 
white. 
And when they passed, alas ! herlife waso'er. 
My lanna vo^lit ! she had the deep blue eyes ; 
As blue and deep as our own Munster skies ! 
The chestnut hair, the line of Cathail's face ; 
Well, God be praised ! she's at the throne of 
grace. 



594 



rO£M^ OF LOSS AND SOKKOH'. 



O wild Blackwater. rolling to the sea ^ | THE HOLLY-AND-IVY GIRL. 

With you, our Eily nevermore will stray! "Come, buy my nice, fresh ivy, and my hoi 
To her pale brow, your kisses waft, arooii .' sprigs so green. 

Pure as the winds that round your islets | have the finest branches that ever yet w. 
play ; • seen : 

Stay with us. memories of old. to-night ; Come, buy from me, good Christians, anrl 
O Ireland, darling, ever in our sight! n,^ home, I pray. 

Be with us now, and like some Gaelic song, ^^^^j jn ^lish you merr>' Christmas, and 
Thrill heart and soul that we may grow more hn^^y New Years Day ! 



.Ah! 



Uo! 



Once there was joy, wife, in our cottage home. 

And blessed angels round our pathway trod ; 
And Eily came, a rose from Heaven sent,— 

A bridal gift to us from Heaven's God ! 
But soon the darkness and the clouds came 

where 
Before all was so verj' bright and fair! 
And then we left for ever Araglen, 
To toil for bread, dear wife, mong stranger •• Th 
men. 



Ah! won't you take my i\y ?— the lovcli' 
ever seen ? 
wont you have my holly boughs? .... 

you who love the Green ! 
-lake a little bunch of each, and on my 
knees I'll pray. 
That God may bless your Christmas, and be 
with you New Year's Day. 



nd is black and bitter, and the hail- 
, stones do not spare 
My shivering form, my bleeding feel, and stirt, 

entangled hair ; 
Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merciful, 

1 say.- 
So Heaven will light your Christmas and the 
coming New Year's Day." 

'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the 

cold hail rallied down, 
And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er 

Dublin's dreary town : 
One stiff hand clutched her ivy sprigs and 

holly boughs so fair. 

With the other she kept brushing the hail- 
ADAM LUX. \ drops fiom her hair. 

When Charlotte Corday journeyed towards 

the dead So grim and statue-like she seemed, twas 

For slaying him she deemed her country's foe, evident that Death 

Thro' all the angry crowd that walched her go Was lurking in her foolsteps-wh.le her hot. 
To that ill place, by frequent blood stained red, impeded breath 

One man who looked his last on that fair Too plainly told her early doom— ihougn the 
l,j.afj burden of her lay 

still of life and Christmas joys, and a 
Happy New Year's Day. 



They're kindly people, tho' they are not ours. 

They gave us welcome when our hope was 
fled:— 
Light up the candles, Maura, we're alone ! 

None with us, darling, but our dear one dead. 
And see she wears a gentle Heavenly smile! 
Our child has left us only for awhile ; 
She is not dead, she's only gone before— 
A rose upon the breast of God, aston- .'" — 

CHAKLKS 1'. IJ'lCINDR. 



Unshamed as yet by any headsman's blow. 
Fell all the currents of his being flow 
The quicker for the girl whose life was shed. 
Seeing and loving, to like end he came— 
Lived but to p.-aise her dead, and p.-aising 

died 
The self-same death of not inglorious shame. 
O Adam Lux, thus seeking thy soul's bride 
Across the stretch of that ensanguined tide. 
High with love's martyrs let me write thy name. 

JUSTIN H. .MCCARTHY. 



Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas street, I 

heard the wanderer sing, 
I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the 

ragged ring— 
My heart fell cold and lonely, and my thoughts 

were far away. 
Where I was many a Christmas-tide and 

Happy New Years Day. 



SEXTE.\'CED TO DEATH. 



595 



I dreamed of wandering in the woods among 

the holly green : 
I dreamed of my own native cot and porch 

with ivy screen ; 
I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd — of hopes 

that can't return — 
And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that 

never more can burn. 

The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no 

one came to buy ; 
Tlie liurrjang crowd passed to and fro, but 

did not heed her cry; 
She uttered one low, piercing moan — then 

cast her boughs away — 
And smiling, cried — "ril rest with God before 

the New Year's Day ! " 

On New Year's Day I said my prayers above 
a new-made grave. 

Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's mur- 
muring wave ; 

The minstrel maid from earth to heaven has 
winged her happy way. 

And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless 
New Year's Day. 

JOHN KEEGAN. 

THE DARK GIRL AT THE HOLY WELL.* 
" Mother, is that the passing bell ? 

Or yet the midnight chime.-' 
Or rush of angels' golden wings .' 

Or is it near //w time — 
The time when God, they say. comes down 

This weary world upon. 
With holy Mary at His right. 

And at His left St. John? 

" I'm dumb ! my heart forgets to throb ; 

My blood forgets to run ; 
But vain my sighs — in vain I sob — 

God's will must still be done. 
I hear but tone of warning bell. 

For holy priest or nun ; 
On Earth, God's face I'll never see ! 

Nor Mary I nor St. John ! 

■• Mother ! my hopes are gone again ; 

My heart is black as ever ; — 
Mother! I say, look forth once more. 

And see can you discover 



God's glory in the crimson clouds — 

See does He ride upon 
That perfumed breeze — or do you see. 

The 'Virgin, or St. John ! 

" Ah, no! ah, no ! Well, God of Peace. 

Grant me thy blessing still ; 
O, make me patient with my doom. 

And happy at Thy will ; 
And guide my footsteps so on earth. 

That, when I'm dead and gone, 
My eyes may catch thy shining light. 

With Mary and St. John. 

" Yet, mother, could I see thy smile. 

Before we part below — 
Or watch the silver moon and stars 

Where Slaney's ripples flow ; 

! could I see the sweet sun shine 
My native hills upon, 

1 'd never love my God the less, 

Nor Mary, nor St. John ! 

" But no, ah no ! it cannot be ; 
Yet, mother ! do not mourn — 

Come, kneel again, and pray to God, 
In peace, let us return ; 

The Dark Girl's doom must aye be mine- 
But Heaven will light me on. 

Until I find my way to God, 
And Mary, and St. John !" 

JOHX KEEGAN. 



at certain times the Redeemer, 
; fountain. 



SENTENCED TO DEATH. 
With the Sign of the Cross on my forehead, 

as I kneel on this cowld dungeon flotr. 
As I kneel at your feet, reverend father, with 

no one but God to the fore ; 
With my heart opened out for your readin', an' 

no hope or thought of relase 
From the death that at day-break to-morrow 

is starin' me sthraight in the face, 
I have tould you the faults of my boyhood — 

the follies an' sins of my youth — 
An' now of this crime of my manhood I'll 

spake with the same open thruth. 

You see. sir, the land was our people's for 

ninety good years, an' their toil 
What first was a bare bit of mountain brought 

mto good wheat-bearin' soil ; 
'Twas their hands raised the walls of the cabin, 

where our childher worborn an' bred, 



J'OEMS OF LOSS AND SOJiJiOH'. 



596 

Where our weddins an' christcnins wor meny, 

where we waked and keened over our dead ; 
We wor honest an' fair to the landlord — we 

paid him the rent to the day— 
An' it wasn't our fault if our hard sweat he 

squandered an' wasted away 
In the cards, an' the dice, an' the racecoorse, 

an' often in deeper disgrace. 
That no tongue could relate without bringin' 

a blush to an honest man's face. 

But the day come at last that they worked for, 
when the castles, the mansions, the lands. 

They should hould but in thrust for the peo- 
ple, to their shame passed away from their 
hands. 

An' our place, sir, too. wint to auction — by 
many the acres were sought. 

An' what cared the sthranger that purchased, 
who made 'em the good soil he bought .' 

The ould folks wor gone — thank God for it — 

where throuble or care can't purshue, 
But the wife an' the childher — O Father in 

Heaven I — what was 1 to do ? 
Still 1 thought. I'll go spake to the new man 

— I'll tell him of me an' of mine ; 
The thrifle that IVe put together I'll place in 

his hand for a fine: 
The estate is worth six times his money, and 

maybe his heart isn't cowld ; 
But the scoundhrel that bought " the thief's 

pen'orth " was worse than the pauper that 

sowld. 

I chased him to house an' to office, wherever 

I thought he'd be met, 
I ofTered him all he'd put on it — but no, 'twas 

the land he should get ; 
I prayed as men only to God pray — my prayer 

was spurned and denied, 
An' what mattered howy/w/ my poor right was, 

when he had the /au' at his side? 
I was young, an' l)ut few years was married to 

one with a voice like a bird- 
When she sang the ould songsof our counthry, 

every feeling within me was stirred. 
Oh! I see her this minnit before me, with a 

foot wouldn't bend a croiu-en. 
Her laughin' lips lifted to kiss me— my darlin', 

my bright-eyed Eileen I 
'Twas often with pride that I watched her, her 

soft arms fouldin' our boy. 
Until he chased the smile from her red lip, an' 

silenced the song of her joy. 



Whisht, father, have patience a minnit ; let iik 

wipe the big tears from my brow, — 
Whisht, father. I'll thr)- not to curse him ; bin 

I tell you. don't prache to me now. 
Excitin' myself? Yes, I know it; but t' 

story is now nearly done ; 
An', father, your own breast is heavin' — I - 

the tears down from you run. 
Well, he threatened— he coaxed — he ejecii 

for we tried hard to cling to the place 
That was mine — yes, far more than 'twas his, 

sir ; I tould him so up to his face ; 
But the little I had melted from me in makin' 

a fight for my own. 
An' a beggar, with three helpless childher, out 

on the wide world I was thrown. 
And Eileen would soon have another — 

another that never dhrew breath — 
The neighbors wor good to us always — but 

what could they do agen death ? 
For my wife an' my infant before me lay dead, 

an' by him they wor kilt. 
As sure as I'm kneelin' before you, to own •, 

my share of the guilt. 
I laughed all consolin' to scorn, I didn't nii 

much what I said. 
With Eileen a corpse in a barn, on a bundle 

sthraw for a bed ; 
But the blood in my veins boiled to madness 

— do they think that a man is a log ? 
I thrackcd him once more — 'twas the last 

time — and shot him that night like a 

dog. 

Yes. / did it; / shot him; but. father, 1^ • 

thim who make laws for the land 
Look to it, whin they come to judgment. : 

the blood that lies red on my hand. 
If I dhrew the piece, 'twas they primed it, that 

left him stretched cowld on the sod ; 
An' from their bar. where I got my sintincc. 

I appeal to the bar of my God 
F'or the justice I never got from them, for tht 

right in their hands that's unknown. 
Still, at last, sir — I'll say it — I'm sorrj- I took 

the law into my own — 
That 1 stole out that night in the darkm ~ 

while mad with my grief and despair. 
And dhruv the black sowl from his bo i 

without givin' him time for a prayer. 

Well, 'tis tould, sir ; you have the whole sto; \ 
God forgive him and me for our sins ; 

My life now is indin' — but. father, the young 
ones, for them life begins ; 



THE FOUR TRAVELERS. 



597 



You'll look to poor Eileen's young orphans? 

God bless you. And now I'm at paice, 
An' resigned to the death that to-morrow is 

starin' me sthraight in the face. 

KATHERINE MURPHY. 



THE LOST WIFE. 
Lone, by my solitary hearth, 

Whence peace hath fled. 
And home-like joys, and innocent mirth 

Are banished ; 
Silent and sad, I linger to recall 

The memory of all 
In thee, dear partner of my cares, I lost. 
Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys 
the world can boast. 

My home — why did I say my home ? 

Now have I none, [come, 

Unless thou from the grave again could'st 

Beloved one ! 
My home was in thy trusting heart, 

Where'er thou wert ; 
My happy home in thy confiding breast. 
Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest. 



My joy, my solace, and my pride 

I found thee still. 
Whatever change our fortunes might betide 

Of good or ill ; 
Worthier I was life's blessing to receive 

While thou didst live ; 
All that I had of good in others' sight. 
Reflected shone thy virtue's borrowed light. 

The lute unstrung — the meals in silence ate 

We wont to share ; 
The widowed bed — the chamber desolate. 

Thou art not there, 
The tear at parting, and the greeting kiss. 

Who would not miss.' 
Endearments fond, and solaced hours, and all 
Th' important trivial things men comfort call. 

Oh ! mayest thou, if permitted, from above 

The starry sphere. 
Encompass me with ever-during love. 

As thou didst here : 
Still be my guardian spirit, lest I be 

Unworthy thee ; 
Still, as on earth, thy grace celestial give. 
So gttide my life as thou ivoiildst /lave me live. 
JOHN FISHER MURRAY. 



I know not if thou wast most fair 

And best of womankind ; 
Or whether earth yet beareth fruit more rare 

Of heart and mind ; 
To me, I know, thou wert the fairest. 

Kindest, dearest, 
That heaven to man in mercy ever gave, 
And mo.'e than man from heaven deserved to 
have. 

Never from thee, sweet wife. 

Came word or look awry, 
Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife 

For mastery : 
Calm and controlled thy spirit was, and sure 

So to endure: [will 

My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle 
Compelled my good, withholding from me ill. 

No art of selfishness And they were brave by flood and fell. 

Thy generous nature knew: And they were blithe in hall ; 

Thy life all love, the power to bless thy bliss, But he that led the stranger's life 
Constant and true, Was blithest of them all. 

Content, if to thy lot the world should bring 

Enduring suffering; Some said the grief of his youth had passed. 

Unhappy, if permitted but to share ! Some said his love grew cold, 

Part of my griefs, wouldst both our burdens \ But nought I know if this were so, 
dear. For the tale was never told. 



THE FOUR TRAVELERS. 
Four travelers sat one winter night 

At my father's board so free ; [land, 

And he asked them why they had left their 

And why they had crossed the sea ! 

One said for bread, and one for gold, 

And one for a cause of strife ; 
And one he came for a lost love's sake, 

To lead a stranger's life. 

They dwelt among our hamlets long. 
They learned each mountain way ; 

They shared our sports in the woodland green. 
And by the crags so gray. 



598 



/•c)/:.l/i O/-- LOSS A.\D SOKKOU: 



His mates they found both home and friends. 

Their heads and tiearts to rest ; 
He Siiw their flocks and fields increase. 

But we loved him still the be*it. 

Now he that came to seek for bread 

Is lord of my fathers land. 
And he that fle<1 so far frctm strife. 

Hath a gvxxlly household Ixind ; 

.\nd he that sought the gold alone 

Hath wedded my sister fair. 
.\nd the txiksare green and the naslurvs wide 

l>i- their pleasant homesteads there. 

But when they meet by the winter fire. 

Or beneath the bright wixxlbine. 
Their talk is yet of a whelming stream. 

And a brax-e life giwn for mine : 

For a grax^e by our mountain river side 

Grows green this many a year. 
Where the flower of the four sleeps e\-ertnore. 

And 1 am a stranger here. 

FRANCES BROWX. 



A CAOINL 
Hone, gone from me and from the earth, and 

fa'>m the Summer sky. 
.\nd all the bright, wild hope and love that 

swelled st» proud and high : 
.\nd all this heart had stored for thee within 

its endless det'p — 
With me — with mc. O I never more thoult 

smile, or joy. or weep! 

There are gold nails on your coffin ; there are 
snowy plumes above ; 



To the sad winds I have scattered the treu- 

ures of my soul 
The sorrow that no tongue could speak, or 

mortal ^wwer contnil— 
And wept the weary night and day until my 

heart was s<.>rc. 
.And ever)- germ of fx-aceand joy was withen-il 

at its core. 

In \-ain. in vain, this yearning cry— this d_... 

and deep despair I 
I droop alone and trembling here, and thou 

art lying /^.r,-. 
But though thy smile upon the earth I never 

more may see. 
.And thou wilt never come to me— yet. I may 

fly to thee ! 

I ne\-er stood within your home — 1 do not 
bear your name- - 

Life parted' us for many a day. but l^ath now 
seals my claim ; 

In darkness, silence, and decay, and here at 
last alone, 

Youre but more truly bound to ine— my dar- 
ling, and my own ! 

KVA MARY KtU-Y. 



THE NAMELESS ONE. 
Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul of thee I 

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whit - 
ning 
.\mid the last homes of vouth and eld. 
They pour their pomp and honors there, but j^at there was once one whose \-eins ran 



I this woe and lo\-e — ! 

The hopeless woe. the longing love, that turn 

fn.im earth away. 
.\nd pray for refuge and 

silent clav '■ 



lightning 

Which no eye beheld. 



lunue within the Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour. 
How shone for him, through his griefs and 
, gloom. 

Come, wild deer of the mountain-side! come, j No star of all heaven sends to light our 

sweet bird of the plain ! I Path to the tomb I 

To cheer the cold and trembling heart that | 

beats for you in vain ! Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

() ! a>me. from »\>e. and cold, and gloom, to Tell how, disdaining all earth can give. 

her thats warm and true. He would have taught men from wisdoni < 

And has no hope or thmb for aught within pages 

this world but vou ! The way to live 




■^"f-'i'yss-wmupns esrt 2^ 



LOUIS Flh'TEENTH. 



599 



And tell how, trampled, derided, hated, | LOUIS FIFTEENTH. 

And worn by weakness, disease and wrong, ! jj,g [^j^g ^.j^j^ j^n j^g kingly train 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated | pj^^j j^f^ l^is Pompadour behind. 

His soul with song— I ^^^ f^^th he rode in Senarfs wood 

I The royal beasts of chase to find. 
With song which alway, sublime or vapid, | jhat day by chance the Monarch mused. 

Flowed like a rill in the morning beam, | And turning suddenly away. 

Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid— He struck alone into a path 

A mountain stream. That far from crowds and courtiers lay. 



Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years 
long 
To herd with demons from hell beneath. 
Saw things that made him, with groans and 
tears, long 

For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted. 

Betrayed in Friendship, befooled in love. 
With spirit shipwrecked and young hopes 
blasted. 

He strove, still strove. 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others. 
And some whose hands should have wrought 
for him, 
(If children live not for sires and mothers). 
His mind grew dim ; 

And he fell far through that pit abysmal. 

The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, 
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns ; 

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness. 

And shapes and signs of the final wrath. 
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness. 
Stood on his path ! 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 

And wantand sickness and houseless nights. 
He bides in calmness the final morrow. 
That no ray lights I 

And lives he still, then? Yes!— old and hoary 

At thirty-nine, from despair and woe. 
He lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble. 

Deep in your bosoms I There let him dwell ; 
He, too, had pity for souls in trouble. 
Here and in hell ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



He saw the pale green shadows play 

Upon the brown untrodden earth; 
He saw the birds around him flit 

As if he were of peasant birth ; 
He saw the trees that know no king 

But him who bears a woodland axe ; 
He thought not. but he looked about 

Like one who still in thinking lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell. 

And glad of human sound was he, 
For truth to say he found himself 

But melancholy companie ; 
But that which he would ne'er have guessed. 

Before him now most plainly came ; 
The man upon his weary back 

.\ coffin bore of rudest frame. 

" Why, who art thou ? " exclaimed the king, 

" And what is that I see thee bear.'" 
■■ I. am a laborer in the wood. 

And 'tis a coffin for Pierre. 
Close by the royal hunting lodge 

You may have often seen him toil ; 
But he will never work again, 

And I for him must dig the soil." 

The laborer ne'er had seen the king. 

And this he thought was but a man. 
Who made at first a moment's pause, 

And then anew his talk began; 
" I think I do remember now, — 

He had a dark and glancing eye, 
."Xnd I have seen his sturdy arm 

With wondrous strokes the pickaxe ply. 

" Pray tell me. friend, what accident 

Can thus have killed our good Pierre Y' 
" Ol nothing more than usual, sir. 

He died of living upon air. 
'Twas hunger killed the poor good man. 

Who long on empty hopes relied ; 
He could not pay gabelle and tax. 

And feed his children, so he died." 



600 



rOEMS OF LOSS AND SOJiKOli . 



The man stopped short, and then went on— 

• It is. you know, a common story, 
Our children's food is eaten up 

By courtiers, mistresses, and glory." 
The king looked hard upon the man. 

And afterwards the coffin eyed. 
Then spurred to ask of Pompadour, 

How came it that the peasants died? 

JOHN STERLING. 



THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
Word was brought to the Danish king 

(Hurry !j 
That the love of his heart lay suffering. 
And pined for the comfort his voice would 
bring ; 
(Oh ! ride as if you were flying!) 
Better he loves each golden curl 
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
Than his richest crowns of ruby and pearl : 
And his rose of the isles is dying ! 

Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; 
(Hurry!) 
Each one mounting a gallant steed 
Which he kept for battle and days of need. 

(Oh I ride as if you were flying !) 
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank ; 
Bridles were slackened and girths were burst : 
But ride as tlicy would, the king rode first, 
For his rose of the isles lay dying! 

His nobles are beaten, one by one ; 
(Hurry!) 
They have fainted and faltered, and home- 
ward gone ; 
His little fair page now follows alone. 

For strength and for courage trying! 
The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
Wan was the face that answering smiled, [din. 
They passed the drawbridge with clattering 
Then he dropped, and only the king rode in 

Where his rose of the isles lay dying ! 

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 

(Silence!) 
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn 
An echo returned on the cold gray morn. 

Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
The castle portal stood grimly wide ; [ride ; 
None welcomed the king from that weary 



For dead, in the ligiu oi inc (lawnini; oay. 
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay. 
Who hady earned for his voice while dying! 

The panting steed, with a drooping crest. 

Stood weary. 
The king returned from her chamber of n - 
The thick sobs choking in his breas ; 

And. that dumb companion eyeing, [chi . 
The tears gushed forth which he strove ici 
He bowed his head on his charger's neck : 
"O steed, that every nerve did'st strain, 
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain 

To the halls where my love lay dying!" 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



GAME LAWS. 
As through the crunching underwood the wild 

boar madly came. 
With lashing tail and gleaming tusks, stiH 

mane and eyes of flame. 

Through golden crops, through tangled copse, 
he fiercely plunging tore ; 

All seemed but withered fibres to the lage- 
exptanding boar. 

Through leafy screen and through ravine, 
through lane and plain the brute 

Makes head, and in the cotter's field at last 
eludes pursuit. 

•' Ho ! Hans, be quick ; take in the child :— 
bring out my trusty gun." 

Hans fled and came — the cotter fired ; — tin- 
wild boar's race was run. 

But woe ! alas, what came to pass : the forest- 
ranger saw 

The deed, and shot the cotter down — to make 
him •• keep the law." 

Herr Graff and staff feast, laugh, and quaflt 
that night with beakcis red ; 

The cotter's home is desolate — its head, its 
heart lies dead. 

'Tis royal sport for kingand court to hunt the 

grizzly boar. 
But woe unto the f)oor man who dare hunt 

him from his door ! 

JOHN SAVAGE. 



OXE SUMMER NIGHT. 



60 1 



PRESENTIMENT. 
Off with the young and brave, 

He went to the war elate ; • 
He saw her kerchief wave 

In the distance at the gate. 

Ever)' night she slept 

Only to dream him dead, 
Till the boding o'er her crept 

That they should never wed. 

Her heart with sullen fears 
Was burdened night and day. 

But after wear\' years 
The war-cloud passed away. 

Home he came from the foe 

On victory's tidal wave, 
To see the daisies blow 

Upon her new-made grave. 

K. K. MUNKITTRICK. 



SLAIN IN THE FOREFRONT. 
He is down in the battle. 

The foremost to fall. 
The loved of our host 

"Whom / loved more than all. 
The golden-brown hair 

In the battle-dust lies ; 
The black silken lashes 

Droop o'er the great eyes : 
To the full fringed lips 

Clings a smile ; like a streak 
Of sunset the life-tint 

Still rests on his cheek. 

" His life is not wasted " 

God calleth to me : 
" The battle rolls onward : 

His spirit is free. 
For the freer life fought he. 

Fought well, and has won 
What the battle host strove for 

That still shall strive on. 
Come thou from the rearward. 

Step forth to his place ; 
Lift off the stout armor, 

The helmet unlace. 
Make fast the stained corslet 

Around thine own breast, 
About thine own temples 

Bind morion and crest ; 



Upraise the fallen buckler. 

Take thou the red sword — 
The dead hand that grasps it 

Will yield at thy word ; 
And sigh not, and grieve not. 

Nor turn left or right, 
But, strong and undaunted. 

Move on to the fight." 

I've ta'en helm and buckler 

Of him my soul loved, 
Put on the whole armor 

The brave one has proved ; 
Stept out to the forefront 

And stand as he stood 
When arrayed for the contest 

He spilt his warm blood. 
And his soul with my soul 

In the long eager strife 
Shall nerve arm and hand 

With a life more than life ; 
With a force not mine only. 

As blow follows blow. 
Every stroke of his good sword 

Shall fall on the foe ; 
And the might of his great hear 

With mine shall be blent. 
Till the last power is ebbed. 

And all energy spent. 
And I drift through the gloor 

Firm of hope, high of cheer, 
To the land where he roameth, 

My soul's pioneer. 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 



ONE SUMMER NIGHT. 
There is mist in the winding hollows 

That fade on the straining sight. 
And dimly the darting swallows 

Dip into the gathering night. 
The hills loom silent and solemn : 

The stream makes a drowsy rhyme. 
That lulls like an echoing volume 

Of song from a far-off time. 

And here in the moonlight sitting- 

I ponder an old tale o'er. 
And here in the twilight flitting 

Are faces that smile no more. 
There's one that is fair and tender. 

And one that is frank and brave, 
And one with a darkling splendor. 

And beyond, in the gloom, a grave. 



6o2 



OF LOSS AND SOJtfiOW. 



Down a shaded pathway lonely 

Two forms in the stillness move, 
And the listening maples only 

Hear the whispered sweets of love ; 
A kiss, and the maiden slowly 

Returns to her cottage door, 
With a peace that is pure and holy 

Upon lips that shall laugh no more. 

Where the road dips low by the river. 

In a hollow of gleam and shade. 
And the silvered tree-tops quiver. 

By the wandering night-wind sway'd. 
Fierce eyes from an ambush glisten 

With a murderous, vengeful glare ; 
Keen ears in the stillness listen 

For a step that will soon be there. 

He comes, with his heart still singing 

The runes of a passionate love ; 
A bound, as a tiger's, springing 

From a vantage point above ; 
A glint, as of white steel gleaming, 

A shriek in the startled night. 
And low where the moon is beaming. 

He lies in the sad, pale light. 



Lo ! the mists float high o"cr the hollows. 

No breath stirs the drowsy leaves. 
That droop in the moon, and the swallows 

Have flown to their nests in the eaves. 
Thus the mists and the moonlight floated 

That night when a brave youth died 
In the copse, and a dark face gloated 

With a vengeful glare by his side, 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



BALLADE DE MARGUERITE. 
I am weary of lying within the chase 
When the knights are meeting in market-place. 

Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town 
Lest the hoo\es of the war-horse tread thee 
down. 

But I would not go where the squires ride. 
1 would only walk by my Lady's side. 

Alack ! and alack ! thou art over bold. 
A forester's son may not eat off gold. 

Will she love me the less that my Father is seen. 
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green ? 



[ Perchance she is sewing at tapestric. 
I Spindle and loom are not meet for the 



.\h, if she is working the arras bright 

I might ravel the threads by the fire-liglit. 



Perchance she is hunting of the deer. 
How could you follow o'er hill and nieer.- 



Ah, if she is riding with the court, 
j I might run beside her and wind the morte. 

Perchance she is kneeling in S, Denys. 
; iOn her soul may our Lady have gramercy ' 

.Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, 

I might swing the censer and ring the bell. 

Come in, my son, for you look sae pale. 
The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. 

But who are these knights in bright array? 
Is it a pageant the rich folks play? 

'Tis the King of England from over sea. 
Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. 

But why does the curfew toll sae low 
And why do the mourners walk a-row ? 

O 'tis Hugh of Amiens my sister's son 
Who is lying stark, for his day is done. 

Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear. 

It is no strong man who lies on the bier. 

'tis old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, 

1 knew she would die at the autumn fall. 

Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown haii. 
Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. 

O 'tis none of our kith and none of our kin, 
(Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin ! ) 

But I hear the boy's voice chanting sweet, 
" Elle est morte, la Marguerite." 

I Come in, my son. and lie on the bed, 
I And let the dead folk bury their dead. 
j 

j O mother, you know I loved her true : 
O mother, hath one grave room for two ? 

OSCAR Wll.llK. 



CIVILE BELLUM. 



60 ■ 



"GOOD-HEARTED." 
The young lord betrayed an orphan maid, 
The young lord, soft-natured and easy. 
The man was "good-hearted," the neighbors 

said. 
Flung meat to his dogs, to the poor flung 
bread. [bled ; 

His father stood laughing, while Drogheda 
He hated a conscience uneasy. 

A widow met him. dark trees o'erhead, 
Her child and the man just parted. 

When home she walked, her knife it was red, 

Swiftly she walked and muttered and said. 

" The blood rushed fast from a fount full fed." 
Ay, the young lord was right good-hearted. 

When morning wan its first beams shed, 

It fell on a corpse yet wanner. 
The great-hearted dogs the young lord had fed 
Watched one at the feet and one at the head. 
But their mouths with a blood pool hard by 
were red. — 

They loved in the j'oung lord's manner. 

AUBREY T. DE VERE. 



The lilies quiver their shining heads. 
Their pale lips full of a sad surprise ; 
And the lizard darts thro' the glistening fern, 
And the squirrel rustles the branches hoar\'; 
Strange birds fly out. with a crj-. to burn 
Their wings in the sunset glory, 
While the shadows pass 
O'er the quiet face on the dewy grass. 

God pity the bride who waits at home, 
With her lily cheeks and her violet eyes, 
Dreaming the sweet old dream of love. 
While the lover is walking in Paradise ! 
God strengthen her heart as the days go by, 
And the long, drear nights of her vigils follow. 
Nor bird, nor moon, nor whispering wind 
May breathe the tale of the hollow I 

Alas 1 alas I 
The secret is safe with the woodland grass. 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 



MISSING. 
In the cool sweet hush of a wooded nook. 
Where the May-buds sprinkle the green old 

ground. 
And winds and buds, and the limpid brook. 
Murmur their dreams with a drowsy sound. 
Who lies so still in the plushy moss. 
With pale cheek press'd to a breezy pillow, 
Couch'd where the light and the shadows cross 
Thro' the flickering fringe of the willow? 

Who lies, alas ! 
So still, so chill, in the whispering grass? 

A soldier, clad in the Zouave dress, 
A bright-haired man. with his lips apart. 
One hand thrown up o'er his frank dead face. 
And the other clutching his pulseless heart. 
Lies there in the shadows cool and dim. 
His musket brush 'd by a trailing bough ; 
A careless grace in each quiet limb. 
And a wound on his manly brow: 

.\ wound, alas I [grass. 

Whence the warm blood drips on the pleasant 

The violets peer from their dusky beds, 
With a tearful dew in their great pure eyes ; 



CIVILE BELLUM. 
■• Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot. 

Right at the heart of yon prowling vedette. 
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 

That shines on his breast like an amulet." 

" Ay, Captain, here's just for a fine-drawn bead. 
There's music around when my barrel's in 
tune." 
Crack went the rifle : the messenger sped. 
And dead from his horse fell the ringing 
dragoon. 

" Now, Rifleman, steal through the bushes and 
snatch 
From yon victim some trinket to handsel 
first blood ; 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
That gleams in the moon like a diamond 
stud." 

"Oh I Captain! I staggered and sunk in my 

track [vedette. 

When I gazed on the face of the fallen 

For he looked so like you as he lay on his back 

That my heart rose upon me and masters me 

yet. 

" But I snatched ofif the trinket, this locket of 
gold ; [way, 

An inch from the centre my lead broke its 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 

Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 



6o4 



J'OEMS OF LOSS AND SOUKOIV 



" Ha, Rifleman, fling me the locket,— 'tis she, 
My brother's young bride ; and the fallen 
dragoon 
Was her husband :— Hush, soldier! 'twas 
Heaven's decree : 
We must bury him there by the light of the 
moon. 

" But hark I the far bugles their warnings unite: 
War is a virtue ; weakness a sin ; [night — 

There's lurking and loping around us to- 
Load again, Rifleman ; keep your hand in !" 

CHARLES DAWSUN SHANLV. 



THE DOG OF THE THREE DAYS. 
With gentle tread, with uncovered head. 

Pass by the Louvre gate. 
Where buried lie the " Men of July." 
And flowers are flung by the passers-by. 

And the dog howls desolate. 

That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught. 

Had rushed with his master on : 
And both fought well ; but the master fell — 

And behold the sur\'iving one ! 

By his lifeless clay.— shaggy and gray. 

His fellow warrior stood. 
Nor moved beyond, but mingled fond. 

Big tears with his master's blood. 

Vigil he keeps by those jgreen heaps 

That tell where heroes be ; 
No passer-by can attract his eye, 

For he knows it is not he! 

At the dawn, when dew wets the garlands new 
That are hung in this place of mourning. 

He will start to meet the coming feet 
Of him whom he dreamt returning. 

On the grave's wood-cross, when the chaplets 
toss. 
By the blasts of midnight shaken. 
How he howleth !— hark ! from that dwelling 
dark 
The slain he would fain awaken. 



When the snow comes fast on the chilly blast. 

Blanching the bleak churchyard. 
With limbs outspread, on the dismal bed 

Of his liege he still keeps guard. 



Jft in the night with main and might 

He strives to raise the stone. 
Short respite takes — " If master wakes, 
He'll call me " — then sleeps on. 

Of bayonet blades, of barricades 

And guns, he dreameth most; 
Starts from his dream, and then would seem 

To eye a bleeding ghost. 

He'll linger there in sad despair. 

And die on his master's grave. 
His name.' 'Tis known to the dead alone — 

He's the dog of the nameless brave I 

Give a tear to the dead, and give some bread 

To the dog of the Louvre gate ! 
Where buried lie the men of July, 
And flowers are flung by the passers-by, 

And the dog howls desolate. 

FRANCI.S S. .MAHONV. 
J-roiii l/if French of Dtinvi^iie. 



I 

THE TIME OF THE BARMECIDES. 
My eyes are filmed, my beard Is gray, 

1 am bowed with the weight of years ; 
I would I were stretched in my bed of clay. 

With my long-lost youth's compeers! [woe. 
For back to the past, tho' the thought brings 

My memory ever glides 
To the old— old time, long — long ago. 

The time of the Barmecides. 
To the old— old time, long — long ago. 

The time of the Barmecides. 

Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will. 

And an iron arm in war. 
And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 
I When the watch-lights glimmered afar , 
And a barb as fiery as any 1 know 
j That Khoord or Beddaween rides. 
Ere my friends lay low, long— long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
Ere my friends lay low. long — long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

One golden goblet illumed my board. 

One silver dish was there ; 
.'\t hand my tried Karamanian sword 

Lay always bright and bare ; 
, For those were the days when the angry blow 

Supplanted the word that chides. 



]VAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE KHALENDEEKS. 



605 



When hearts could glow, long — long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
When hearts could glow, long — long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

Through city and desert my mates and I 

Were free to rove and roam. 
Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky. 

Or the roof of the palace-dome — 
Oh, ours was that vivid life to and fro 

Which only sloth derides — 
Men spent life so. long — long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides, 
Men spent life so, long — long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides ! 

I see rich Bagdad once again. 

With its turrets of Moorish mould. 
And the Khalif's twice five hundred men 

Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
I call up many a gorgeous show 

Which the pall of oblivion hides- 
All passed like snow, long — long ago, 

With the time of the Barmecides ; 
All passed like snow, long — long ago. 

With the time of the Barmecides! 

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray. 

And I bend with the weight of years. — 
May I soon go down to the House of Clay 

Where slumber my youth's compeers ! 
For with them and the past, tho' the thought 

My memory ever abides, [wakes woe. 

And I mourn for the time gone long ago. 

For the time of the Barmecides ! 
I mourn for the time gone long ago, 

For the time of the Barmecides ! 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
Ascribed to the Arabic. 



WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE 
KHALENDEERS. 
La'laha, il Allah!* 
Here we meet, we three, at length, 

Amrah, Osman, Perizad : 
Shorn of all our grace and strength. 

Poor, and old, and very sad ! 
We have lived, but live no more ; 

Life has lost its gloss for us. 
Since the days we spent of yore 
Boating down the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, li Allah ! 



' God alone 1 



The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
Old Time brought home no loss for us. 
We felt full of health and heart 
Upon the foamy Bosphorus ! 

La' laha. il Allah ! 
Days indeed! A shepherd's tent 

Served us then for house and fold ; 
All to whom we gave or lent. 

Paid us back a thousand fold. 
Troublous years, by myriads wailed. 

Rarely had a cross for us, 
Never when we gayly sailed. 

Singing down the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

There never came a cross for us. 
While we daily, gayly sailed. 

Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Blithe as birds we flew along. 

Laughed and quaffed and stared about; 
Wine and roses, mirth and song. 

Were what most we cared about. 
Fame we left for quacks to seek. 

Gold was dust and dross for us. 
While we lived from week to week. 

Boating down the Bosphorus 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

And gold was dust and dross for us. 
While we lived from week to week, 

A-boating down the Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Friends we were, and would have shared 

Purses, had we twenty full. 
If we spent, or if we spared. 

Still our funds were plentiful. 
Save the hours we past apart 

Time brought home no loss for us ; 
We felt full of hope and heart 

While we clove the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

Life has lost its gloss for us, 
Since the days we spent of yore 

Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Ah ! — for youth's delirious hours 

Man pays well in after days, 
Whenquench'd hopes and palsied powers 

Mock his love-and-laughter days. 



6o6 



POEMS OF L066 AND SOUKOIV. 



Thorns and thistles on our path 
Took the place of moss for us, 

Till false fortune's tempest wrath 
Drove us from the Bosphorus. 

La' laha. il Allah \ 
The Hosphorus, the F^osphorus I 



How gallantly, as night comes down, u|.. 

the Syrian seas. 
The ■• Hel-Marie" all canvas crowds to catch 

the springing breeze I 
A prosperous course be hers I ^ the spears 

above her poop that gleam 



WliL-n thorns took place of moss for us. Have flashed ere now. like stars, I trow, on 



Gone was all I Our hearts were graves 
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus I 

La' laha, il Allah! 
Gone is all ! In one abyss 

Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment ! 
All we've learned amounts to this — 

Life's a sad experiment. 
What it is we trebly feel 

Pondering what it was for us. 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 

We wail for what life was for us 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus ! 



La' laha, il Allah .' 
Pleasure tempts, yet man has none 

Save himself t' accuse if her 
Temptings prove, when all is done, 

Lures hung out by Lucifer. 
Guard your fire in youth, O friends! 

Manhood's is but phosphorus. 
And bad luck attends and ends 
Boatings down the Bosphorus. 

La' laha. il Allah I 
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 
Youth's fire soon wanes to phosphorus. 
And slight luck or grace attends 
Your boaters down the Bosphorus I 
AsaibeJ U> ih: An,hi,\ 

J.\MES I LAREXCE MANGAN. 



Siloa's solemn stream. 



Precious the freight that proud bark bears — 

-the ransom and the spoil 
Reaped from Mahound's blaspheming crew 

on many a field of toil ; 
Large lustrous cups, Kathay's bright robes, the 

diamond's living rays, — 
Carpets from Tyre, whose costly fire for kings 

alone should blaze. 



And worth them all, that Fairest One. whose 

' tresses' sunny twine. 
Far down unroll'd, outshames the gold of 

tawny India's mine; 
When storm 'd the Cross round Gazas fosse, 

all bright but faithless, she 
Fled from her Emir-spouse, De Vere's light 

paramour to be. 

And now, when sultrj'day is done, her languid 

brow to cool. 
Soft couch'd upon the curtain'd deck reclines 

the Beautiful ; 
Voluptuous in repose as She who. 'mid the 

.'Egean Isles. 
Rose radiant from the frowning deep she 

dazzled into smiles. 



THE FLIGHT TO CYPRUS. 
De Vere has loosed from Ascalon — Judea's 

holy gale 
Fresh with the spikenard's evening scent, is 

rustling in his sail : 
A victor he to Normandy ploughs homeward 

through the brine ; 
Herald and harp shall laud him long fordeeds 

in Palestine. 



Fast by that lady's pillow sits the passionate 

De Vere 
Now dimming with his doting kiss the glory 

of her hair ; 
Or watching till their sleepy lids her eyes' blue 

langour veil — 
Of murmuring on her lips of rose fond love's 

untiring tale. 

Yet restless all is her repose, no solace can she 

find; 
The press of canvas overhead hoarse groaning 

in the wind — 
The cordage-strain — the whistling shrouds 

De Vere's devoted words — 
All things, or soft or sullen, now disturb her 

spirit's chords. 



THE FLIGHT TO CYPRUS. 



60: 



"In vain thy love would lull my ear, thou 

flattering knight, for whom 
I faithless fled my lord and land! — methinks 

that, through the gloom. 
Some fearsome Genii's mighty wings are 

' shadowing my soul. 
Black as the clouds and waters now that 

round about us roll." 



" Ah, cheer thee, sweet — 'tis but the rude and 

restless billows' heaving. 
That frets thy frame of tenderest mould with 

weariness and grieving ; 
'Twill vanish soon: when mounts the moon 

at midnight from the sea. 



O Queen of Quiet — thou who wijinst our 
adoration still. 

As when a wondering world bow'd down on 
thine Ephesian hill ! 

Stainless thyself, impart thy calm and purify- 
ing grace, 

To her, the stain'd one, watching thee with 
her resplendent face.' 

The breeze has dropp'd — the soundless sails 

are flagging one by one ; 
While in his cabin still De Vere the parchment 

pores upon ; 
Sudden a shriek — a broken groan, his ear have 

smitten — hark ! 



Sweet Cyprus, with its rosy rocks high shining i That laughing yell ! — sure fiends from hell are 



on our lee, 

" Shall see us anchor'd — if the truth our 

Moorish pilot tell. 
Who, since we weigh'd, has steer'd for us so 

steadily and well. 
E'en now I go to track below our bearings by 

the chart ; — 
With freight like thee can I be free from wist- 

fulness of heart.'" 

De Vere is gone. His silent crew, from all 
the decks above. 

Descend, lest even a murmur mar the slum- 
bers of his Love ; 

Yon aged Moor, who, soectre-like, still at the 
rudder stands. 

Yon stripling, station'd at the prow, are all 
the watching hands. 



hailing to the bark! 

He gains the deck— the spot where last 

idolatrous he stood. 
Is cross'd by some dark horrid thing — a narrow 

creeping flood ; 
Great Heaven forbid !— but where's the heart 

from whence it gush'd .' — for now 
The decks contain no form but that stone-stiff 

beside the prow. 

Stone-stiff — half life, half death — it stands 

with hideous terror dumb. 
And bristling hair, and striving still for words 

that will not come : 
Speak thou — speak thou, who from the prow 

kept watch along the water. 
And kill thy lord with one dread word of 

Gaza's glorious daughter I 



Pavilion-screen'd, from her soft couch how 

oft that lady bright 
Raised like an evening star her head, and To 

look'd upon the night. 



Praying the tardy 

the shadows di 



to rise— and through | Sky-musing the 



He told at last, that as he turn'd, what time 
the breeze had died. 

his mates — far at the stern, the lady 
he espied. 



nd bv the helm, with eves 



coal-blazi ng — Him, 



Encountering but that spectral form beside ^ The Evil One, in semblance of their Moorish 



the rudder grim. 



pilot grim. 



The moon at last! — blood-red and round, she i Who stole to her before that bov could > 



wheeleth up the wave, 



himself for grace. 



Soaring and whitening like a soul ascending His turban doff'd, then touch'd her arm, and 



from the grave 
Then riseth too the Beauty-brow'd, and qu 

with gentlest motion 
Her tent's festoons. — two rival Moons at once j Pi 

upon the ocean ! 



stared her in the face — 
That furnace-stare ! — her scorch'd head 
dropp'd — a flash — at once she fell 
at his feet, who instantly sprang with 
her down to hell ! 



6o.S 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



Where olive-groves their shadows fling from 
Cyprus' musky shore. 

The " Bel-Marie " high stranded lies, to plough 
the waves no more : [aisles. I ween. 

And day by day, far, far away, in Rouen's 

Down-broken, like that stately bark, a mourn- 
ful monk is seen. 

UAKIHOLU.MKW SIMMONS. 



KING CORMAC'S CROWN. 
Prince Cormac sheathed his sharpest sword 

In the breast of his brother's son ; 
And his nobles hailed him as Riagh and Lord 

When the treacherous deed was done ; 
And they bore him then to his palace, near 

Where Banns deep waters wind, — 
O Ulster! didst thou see and hear. 

Or wert thou deaf and blind ? 

And Cormac sate at the feast that night 

In .Antrim's royal hall, 
Witli his vassal Tiernachs and men of might. 

.And iron chieftains all ; 
" And where is the kingly diadem .' " he cried, 

■• Ye have destined for this head .' " 
When the oaken door swung suddenly wide. 

And lo ! a sight of dread : 

A bier with coffin and sable pall. 

And bearers in mournful attire. 
Moved slowly up the spacious hall. 

While hushed was laugh and lyre ! 
And the murderer shook in his royal chair. 

While he tried to grasp his spear ; 
But the curse of crime had stricken him there 

And he looked a statue of fear ! 

And the bearers lifted the coffin lid. 

And a corpse, with a gor)- wound 
In its naked breast, stood up amid 

The death-pale revellers round ; 
And a crown of blood-cemented clay 

In its hands it seemed to bear. 
And It spake, — " O King, enjoy thy sway ! 

This diadem thou shalt wear I " 

A silence deeper than the grave's 

Now thrills the throng with dread ; 
And the broken murmurs of Banna's waves 

Seem voices of the dead I 
It was far In the wane of the emerald spring, 

.And a bright May morning poured 
Its rays through the hall ; but the Irish King 

Sate dead at his banquet board ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA* 

[Dcirdre, wife of Naisi. ihc «>n o( I iim. rciurnias wilh her 
husband lo Emana, in Erin, laments for Alba, (.Scotland) her 
adopted country.] 

Alas ! and alas, my sorrow ! 

The pain that hath no relief. 
Alas! for the dreadful morrow 

To dawn on our day of grief — 
Oh. land In the orient glowing, 

The last of thy smiles hath shone 
On us, for Fate's wind is blowing, 

.And the wave of our doom speeds on. 
And a blight from the westward comcth, 
and the bloom of our life is gone! 

Oh, land of the sunbright mountains. 

With the purple moors at their feet. 
Of the clear lile-niirroring fountains, 

.And rivers of water sweet ; 
Of the fragrant wcK>d-bowers twining, 

.And the cataract's sounding roar, 
'Of the lakes in their splendor shining. 

And the pine-woods whispering o'er. — 
.Ah ! naught but my lord, my lover, could 
lure me from thy green shore I 

Sweet Is It in Daro's valley 

To list to the falling rill. 
To the breeze in the woodland alley. 

And the goshawk's note from the hill ! 
To the llght-wlnged swallow pursuing 

His mate with a joyous cry. 
To the cuckoo's voice and the cooing 

Of doves in the pine-tops high. 
And the throstle's song In the thicket, and 
the larks from the morning sky. 

Under the summer arbor. 

By the fresh sea-breezes fanned. 
Where the waters of Drayno's harbor 

Sing over the silver sand. 
Happy from morn till even 

We've watched the sea-birds play. 
And the ocean meeting the heaven, 

In the distance far away. 
And the gleam of the white-sailed galleys, 
and the flash of the sunlit spray! 

In Masan the green, the blooming. 

How happy our days did pass; 
Many Its flowers perfuming 

And studding like gems the grass; 
There the foxglove purpled the hollow. 

And the iris flaunted Its gold. 



THE EXILES LAMENT. 



609 



And the flowei- that waits for the swallow, For there are ways of killing men 

Its dainty bloom to unfold, I Beside the sword, the axe, the rope — 

With the hyacinth blue and the primrose. Great hearts will break when lost to hope, 

laughed in the breezy wold. And yet no blood be seen. 



in Eta of sunny weather. 

'Neath our happy home-porch hid. 
On venison sweet from the heather. 

And flesh of the mountain kid. 
Or game from the forest cover, 

And fish from the crystal stream 
We feasted till eve was over. 

And the moon with her silver gleam 
Soared o'er the dusky pine-woods out from 
the realm of dream. 

O land of the East ! O giver 

Of freedom from sore distress! 
O land where no cloud came ever 

To darken our happiness ! 
O home of pleasure and promise 

And peace unto mine and me, 
When I see thy shore fade from us, 

I sigh in my misery. 
And send my voice o'er the waters, crj'ing 

farewell to thee. 
Translation. ANONYMOUS. 



AN EXILE'S GRAVE. 
He sleeps, and o'er his humble grave 
No gilded trophy meets the view. 
And yet the man beneath was true. 
Just, resolute, and brave. 

He paid his folly's farthest debt — 
Inurn it with his mortal parti 
His qualities of mind and heart 
Will long survive him yet. 

Oh, friends, it is a bitter thing 
To die alone in a wide land. 
Without a friend, without a hand. 
Or hope, or help to bring. 

To know our bones may never rest 
In the green valleys of our youth — 
To feel that many a foul untruth 
Our memory may molest. 

He bared against a vengeful foe 
The- steel to freedom consecrate. 
And died, the victim of a hate 

That spares nor high nor low. 



In simplest guise, and borne by some 
Who knew his worth — his will to bless — 
He presses, as our noblest press. 
The couch of martrydom. 

Peace to his soul ! — Let him who ne'er 
Hath felt the long-protracted pains. 
The life in death of prison-chains. 
Speak lowly and beware. 

Let him who ne'er was gagged, and torn 
From home and kindred far away — 
Who hath not steeped from day to day 
His bread in tears of scorn. 

Let him be mute, or meekly pray. 
Thus kneeling on the grassy sod — 
" Thy sore temptations, known to God, 
Have washed thy sins away." 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



THE EXILE'S LAMENT. 
Oh, my heart is with old times ! 
My friends have passed like marriage chimes; 
And joy now breathes but from the rhymes 

Of minstrels that I loved when young ; 
And in old songs that of a night. 
By hearth or summer evening light. 
My dear companions sung. 
The few that last 
From the pale past 
Are silent, cold and gray ; 
Youth has fled — cares of existence 
Dim its rainbows in the distance : 

'Mid falling tears the world they tread, 
With age and weakness wearied. 
And souls that turn but to the Dead — 
Ah, welladay ! 

Yon moon has never changed 
Since o'er the far-off fields I ranged. 
Ere time grew dark or hearts estranged 

In life's disastrous fight. 
By windows then at eventide. 
My love and I sat side by side, 
Amid the windy light; 

The moon clouds past. 
And she at last 
Is vanished far away; 



6io 



J'OKM.-^ ('/• 



Now my heart with memory passes 
By her dear grave chanting masses ; 

Reading her loved books, and talking 
With her as alone I'm walking — 
Ah, welladay I 

Tis a night of New Year's Day 

The clanging chimes have ceased to play, 

And the stars look pale and gray 

O'er the strange town where I dwell: 
There are laughters in the street. 
Where the light young neighbors meet, 
And the aged their stories tell : 
But there's One 
With me alone. 
Who from Heaven came this day 
To search the earth for me. 
By the grave that's o'er the sea, 
By the old house on the lea — 
Ah, welladay 1 

THOMAS C. IRWIN. 



WEEP NOT FOR HIM THAT DIETH 
Weep not for him that dieth. 

I'or he sleeps, and is at rest ; 
And the couch whereon he lieth 

Is the grave's green quiet breast 
But weep for him who pineth 

On a far land's hateful shore. 
Who wearily declineth 

Where ye see his face no more 

Weep not for him that dieth. 

For friends are round his bed. 
And many a young lip sigheth 

When they name the early dead ; 
But weep for him that livelh 

Where none will know or care. 
When the groan his faint heart giveth 

Is the last sigh of despair. 

Weep not for him that dieth. 

For his struggling soul is free, 
And the world from which it flieth 

Is a world of misery ; 
Hut weep for him that weareth 

The captive's galling chain ; 
To the agony ///• bearcth. 

Death were but little pain. 

Weep not for him that dieth. 
For he has ceased from tears. 

And a voice to his replielh 
Which he hath not heard for years ; 



But weep for him who wcepeth 
On that cold land's cruel shore, — 

Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,— 
Weep for the dead no more ! 

CAROLINE E. NORTON. 



WAITING FOR THE DAWN. 

I said, ".Mama is going home 

To God's home in the bright blue sky: 
She wants her little ones to come 

And kiss her — and then say goodbye. " 

The children, wondering what I meant. 

Looked up — my eyes were far away : 
They put their hands in mine, and went 
I To where their dying mother lay. 

['Their rosy lips gave, each in turn. 

Warm kisses to the cold while brow: 
I saw her eyes light up and yearn — 
I see them lit and yearning now. 

The children went away to bed. 
And on each pillow snowy white 

A ruddy cheek — a curly head 
Nestled in slumber all the night. 

And I was in the room of death 
Alone — alone — the long hours through : 

I watched the gently failing breath 
Grow faint and faint as falling dew. 

At length there came a change — a chill 
That drew a shiver from the earth, 

A shiver of wind — then all was still.- 
I waited for the daylight's birth. 

A ghastly glimmer of the dawn. 

Sadder than darkness, filled the roon — 

The veil was lifted, not withdrawn ; 
1 saw enough to see the gloom. 

I took in mine the wasted hand. 
And sank upon my knees in prayer. 

The while with dreamy eyes I scanned 
The large blue veins that wandered there. 

Till something seemed to whisper, " Rise" — 

1 rose in haste, and bending o'er 
I The pillow, sought the sweet blue eyes 
; Where life's warm sparkle played no more. 



THE DEAD MOTHER. 



Yet love shone through them — Love that 

Intensity when force is spent ; 
Infinite in its very chains. 

And in its dumbness eloquent. 

For never is the sun so bright 
As then when evening clouds eclipse. 

Nor Love so fair as when her light 
Burns thro' the veil of soeechless lips. 

speechless lips, I saw you move 

To make a kiss, but Death forbade ; 
You told your agony of love, 

.Although the kiss was never made 

For unperceived, Death's shadowy mist 
Came lightly gliding in between 

Our yearning souls, and as I kissed 
The lies, I touched the icy screen. 

And in that touch a chilling wave 

Of wintry breath, that crept and stole 

Like nightwind moaning o'er a grave. 
Curdled the stillness of mv soul. 

1 dared not name or shape in thought 
The sickening doubt, the formless dread ; 

Half aimlessly I rose and sought 
The window-pane — the skv was dead. 

Clouds hung against it, wan and dim 
.'\nd lifeless as my darling's cheek ; 

But just along the eastern rim 
There ran a faintly golden streak. 

EUMOND G. A. H(_)LMES. 



THE DEAD MOTHER. 
I had been buried a month and a year, 
The clods on my coffin were heavy and 

brown. 
The wreaths at my headstone were withered 

and sere, 
No feet came now from the little town ; 
I was forgotten, six months or more. 
And a new bride walked on my husband's 

floor. 

Below the dew and the grass-blades lying. 

On All Souls' Night, when the moon is cold, 
I heard the sound of my children crying. 

And my hands relaxed from their quiet 
fold; 



gams Through mould and death-damp it pierced 
my heart, 
And I woke in the dark with a sudden start. 



I I cast the coffin-lid off my face, 
I From mouth and eyelids I thrust the clay. 
And I stood upright from the sleepers' place, 
And down through the graveyard I took 
my way ; [snow, 

I The frost on the rank grass shimmered like 
And the ghostly graves stood white in a row. 

As I went down through the little town 

The kindly neighbors seemed sore afeard, 
For Leuchin plucked at the cross in her gown, 
I And Hans said, " Jesu," under his beard, 
.\nd many a lonely wayfarer 
Crossed himself, with a muttered prayer, 

I I signed the holy sign on my brows 

I And kissed the crucifix hid in my shroud ; 

."Vs I reached the door of my husband's house 
1 The children's clamor rose wild and loud, 

.And swiftly I came to the upper floor. 

.And ope'd, in the moonlight, the nursery door. 

No lamp or fire in the icy room, 

It was cold, as cold as my bed in the sod ; 
My two boys fought in that ghostly gloom 

For a mouldy crust that a mouse had 
gnawed : 
■' Oh, mother, mother ! " my Gretchen said, 
•■ We have been hungry since you were dead." 

But what had come to my tender one, 
My babe of little more than a year ? 

Her limbs were cold as my breast of stone. 
But I hushed her weeping with — " Mother 
is here ; " — 

My children gathered about my knees. 

And held with soft fingers my draperies. 

T/uy did not fear me, my babies sweet : 
I lit the fire in the cheerless stove, 

.A.nd washed their faces, and hands, and feet, 
.And combed the golden fleeces I love, 

.And brought them food, and drink, and light, 

.And tucked them in with a last " good-night." 



I Then softly, softly, I took my way, 
j Noiselessly over the creaking stair. 

Till I came to the room where their father lay, 
And dreamed of his new love's yellow hair ; 

And I bent and whispered low in his ear, 
I " Our babies were cold and hungry, dear." 



6l2 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROH'. 



Thus he awoke with a sob at his heart, 
For he thought of me in the churchyard 
mould. 

And we came together — we, far apart — [cold ; 
Where our children lay in the moonlight 

And lie kissed their faces, and wept and said. 

■• Oh. dead love, rest in your quiet bed. 

'■ To-morrow shall these be warm and glad. 

With food and clothing, and light and wine. 
And brave toy-soldiers for each wee lad, 

And Gretchen shall nurse a dolly so line — 
But, baby, baby, what shall we do. 
For only the mother can comfort you?" 

I heard the break in his voice, and went — 
Twould soon be cock-crow, the dawn was 
near — 

And I laid me down with a full content 
That all was well with my children dear ; 

And my baby came in a month or less. 

She was far too young to be motherless. 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 



THE NUN ON THE BATTLE FIELD. 

An Incident of the Franco-German War. 

Dead on the corpse-strewn battle plain 

Where war's dread work is done. 
She lies, amid the heaps of slain. 

The pure and holy Nun : 
She saw the stricken soldier fall. 

And. ere the strife was o'er. 
She rushed, unheeding blade or ball. 

To staunch his flowing gore ; 
To gently raise his drooping head. 

To cool his lips of flame. 
To whisper, ere his spirit fled. 

The Saviour's Holy name. 
And on from one to one to pass 

'Midst those who. living yet. 
Lay groaning on the crimsoned grass 

Their streaming blood had wet ; 
With saintly love and tenderness 

Their suffering hearts to aid, 
Whate'er the color of the dress 

Thro' which their wounds were made. 
And — in whatever form of speech 

They prayed to God above — 
Unto their dying lips to reach 

The emblem of His love. 
But ah, the battle's thundering swell 

Had rolled not far away. 
And still the murderous missiles fell 

Where dead and dying lay ; 



Bullets, ill sped, came whistling by. 

Huge shot tore up the ground. 
And shells, like meteors from on high, 

Spread fresh destruction round. 
She flinched not while they hurtled past. 

Nor turned her head aside. 
But when her death-wound came at last 

She blest her God. and died. 

TIMOTHY U. SULLIVAN. 



BEYOND THE RIVER. 
Weep no more about my bed ; 
Weep no more, be comforted. 
That which pale and cold you see, 
Once was mine, but is not me: 
Kiss no more that thing of clay. 

That as garment once I wore ; 
Foul, I fling it far away. 

That it soil my soul no more, — 
That no more it close me in 
With its bands of grief and sin. 

Weep no more about my bed ; 
Weep no more, be comforted. 
That which you to earth convey. 
Weeping, wailing on the way. 
Is as but an empty shell, 

As a cage whence bird is flown ; 
As a hut where one did dwell. 

Ever full of pain and moan ; 
As a mask that mocks and jeers 
'Fore a face all filled with tears. 

Weep no more about my bed. 

Weep no more, be comforted. 

Now at last I live in truth. 

Now I feel unfading youth. 

Now the world's dark ways are clear. 

Now the weary wonder dies. 
Now your little doubts appear 

Mists that fail to vail the skies : — 
Now your knowledge, skill and strength, 
Childish toys appear at length. 

Weep no more about my bed ; 
Weep no more, be comforted. 
He you weep you may not see. 
But he stands beside your knee ; 
He who loved you loves you still. 

Loves you with a treble power. 
Loves you with a mightier will. 

Growing, growing, every hour. 
He you clasped m arms of clay 
Tends you closely day by day. 



DIRGE SONG. 



Weep no more about my bed 
Weep no more, be comforted. 
Where I am ye soon will come ; 
This, this only is our home. 
I am only gone before. 

Just a little moment's space. 
Soon upon this painless shore 

Vou shall see me face to face ; 
Then we'll smile and wonder why 
You should weep that I should die. 

CHARLES ANDERSON READ. 



DIRGE. 
Strew flowers on her bier ; 
The fairest flower here 

Lies withered, of them all ; 
Ere opening, it could yield 
The sweets that lay concealed. 

Within its calyx held in patient thrall. 

A bud by rude winds broke, — 
At fortune's cruel stroke 

She shivered first, then sighed 
At the unkind assault ; 
Then pitying the fault. 

She closed her eyes, and cast her pain aside. 

So bring, though all their bloom 
And delicate perfume 

By her unheeded be. 
The flowers she loved so well, 
And let them, silent, tell 

In Death's cold shade, of Immortality. 

The fragrant mignonette. 
The blue-eyed violet. 

White roses, heliotrope. 
The lily of the vale, 
The snow-drop, pure and pale, [Hope. 

Tuberoses, and the flower that speaks of 

And humblest of them all. 
With blood-tipped coronal. 

The gold-eyed daisy bring ; 
To every flower that grew 
Her heart's fond faith was true ; [cling. 

Then meet it is that round her now they 

Here where upon her breast 
Folded, her pale hands rest. 

Place lilies, white and pure ; 
The thoughts were pure as they 
That, dove-like, brooding lay 

Above the hopes that nestled there secure. 



And on that placid brow 
Whose light is veiled now. 

Shall rest the immortelle ; 
Wreathed with the flower of Thought, 
And pale moss-rose buds, fraught [sleep well. 

With sweetness: — with such friends she shall 

So: all is done. Compose 
Her limbs in still repose 

Nor toil nor breaks, nor strife ; 
Then yield her to the clay. 
And in her coffin lay [her life. 

The hopes, frail flowers, that clustered round 

MARY .f. SERRANO. 



DIRGE SONG. 



Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and 
thy height, [flight ; 

Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in 
Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce 
breath, [death ! 

Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was 
Alas ! how soon the thin cold cloud 
The hero's bloody limbs must shroud ? 
I see thy father full of days, 
For thy return behold him gaze, 
The hand that rests upon the spear 
Trembles in feebleness and fear; — 
He shudders, and his bald gray brow 
Is shaking, like the aspen bough ; 
He gazes till his dim eyes fail 
With gazing on the fancied sail. 
Anxious he looks, — what sudden streak 
Flits like a sunbeam o'er his cheek .' 
" Joy, joy, my child, it is the bark 
That bounds on yonder billow-dark. " 
His child looks forth with straining eye. 
And sees — the light cloud sailing by! 
His gray head shakes ; how sad, how weak 
That sigh ! how sorrowful that cheek ! 
His bride from her slumbers will waken and 

weep, 
But when shall the hero arouse him from 

sleep ? 
The yell of the staghound, the clash of the 

spear. 
May ring o'er his tomb — but the dead cannot 

hear ! 
Once he wielded the sword, once he cheered 

to the hound. 
But his pleasures are past, and his slumber is 
sound : 



6i4 



POEMS OF LOSS A.\I) SOJih'OH: 



Await not his coming, ye sons of the chase ; Wild, wildly that wail ringeth back on the 



Day dawns, but it nerves not the dead for 

the race ! 
Await not his coming, ye sons of the sijcar, 



From that lone place of tombs, .ts if spirits 
were there ; 



plore ; 

They weep for the tearless, whose sorrows arc 
o'er. 

JAMES WlLl 



The war-song ye sing— but the dead will not O'er the silent, the still and the cold they de- 
hear ! 

Oh ! blessing be with him who sleeps in the 

grave. 
The leader of Lochlin. the young and the 

brave ! 
On earth didst thou scatter the strength of 

our foes ; 
Then blessings be thine in thy cloud of 

repose 
Like the oak of the vale was thy strength and 

thy might. 
Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in 

flight 



ACROSS THE GULF.* 



If i< 



ICC bill <«nr hour from t»ff ihe starry sh.-' 
y soul were stilled, for thou couliist tell me 
[than all lore." 
lancholy world doth know,— things deeper 



The hunger of m 
Than all this me 

So thou art safe, my own. 
From all earth's evil, weariness, and pain; 
From the sad spirit and the tired brain ; 



Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce, F^^-" ^^e fair dreams that bring such drear 

breath, I awakmg. 

Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was \ Thy heart will rest while living hearts are 

death. breaking. 

JOHN ANSTER. 
From the Irish. Yet do I mourn for thee. 

I try to look beyond the clinging clay. 

To where, 'tis said, freed spirits soar to Day; 
A bright world peopled by celestial things. 



THE BURIAL. 



A faint breeze is playing with flowers on the With star-crowned brows and snowy, rushing 



The blue vault of summer is silent and still ; I 
And the vale with the wild bloom of nature is | 



wings. 



No comfort do I find — 
Tis thee I want, thy human voice and eyes. 



But the far hillsare breathing a sorrowful lay. No wise bright angel leaning from the skies; 

I But my own love who held me on his breast. 
As winds on the Clairseac/i'ssoiA chords when In love's fair morn, caressing and caressed. 

they stream. 
As the voice of the dead on the mourner's 

dark dream ! 



O kindest, gentlest soul. 
Was that low grave beyond the prairie sea. 



Far away, far away, from gray distance it All that the western world could give to thee? 

breaks, [wakes. And I. — I left thee there to die alone 1— 

First known to the breast by the sadness it When will that shadow from my soul be 

I thrown .' 

Now lower, now louder, now longer it mourns. 
Now faintly it falls, and now fitful returns; 



Now the same path I tread. 



Now near, and now nearer, it swells on the And hear thro" silent nights the steps of 
ear. i 



Death, 
Timed by the sinking pulse and laboring 
breath. 
With slow steps, sad burthen, and wild-uttered And know how dark to thee it must have 



The wild iiliilita. the death-song is near! 



i-ail. 



[vale ; 



been. 



Maid, matron and cotter wind up from the ' That hopeless, homeless, friendless closing 



And loud lamentations salute the gray hill. 

Where their fathers are sleeping, the silent j 

and still. I 



vho died alone in Denver, 



A/A/^y OF CLORAH. 



Pity me and forgive, — 
And if in all those starrj' realms above. 
There is a place where human hearts still 

love. 
Come to me, speak to me, give me but a sign 
That thou art living, and that thou art mine. 

Then would I welcome Death ; 
Life has been harsh ; of all the gifts of Fate, 
Thy love was best, and that I learned too 

late, j 

But learned it well at last, and now would 

give 
All I have had and hoped for, couldst thou live. 

Never an answer comes 
Across the soundless space from thee to me, 
And yet, and yet, I know that I shall see 
Thy face, and hear thy voice, and clasp thy 

hand. 
Upon the threshold of that unknown land. 



MARY OF CLORAH. 
In the dewy April weather. 
When the tufts were on the heather. 

And the feathery larch was green, 
Mary, like the young Aurora, 
Shone amid the woods of Clorah ; 

Pride was in her stately mien. 

O her laugh was like the runnel 
Bubbling in its pebbly channel 

Mid the glistening moss and fern ; 
But it hushed the stock-dove sighing, 
And it set the cuckoo flying. 

And it scared the lonely hern. 

She was all alone, sweet Mary, 
Tripping like a winsome fairj' 

Through the woods at break of morn. 
Laughing to herself, and singing 
Rustic snatches that went ringing 

Through the glens like laughs of scorn. 

When a year had fled, the weather 
Was as fair, as fresh the heather. 

And the feathery larch as green ; 
But no pride was left in Mary, 
And the laughing, winsome fairy 

Was no more what she had been. 



O'er her little babe her laughter 
Burst in fits, but sighs came after; 

Thro' her mirth was breathed a sigh. 
Now she kissed her infant wildly. 
Now she looked upon it mildly 

Thro' the tears that dimmed her eye. 

Then she murmured: " Baby mine 
Would my soul were calm as thine ! 

Sleep, my darling little boy ; 
Sleep, the winds about thee moaning; 

1 Sleep, nor heed thy mother groaning; 

i Sleep, my own, my only joy. 

" Ah, niethinks thine eyes of blue 
Are more loving, deep, and true, 

Closed beneath those silken lashes. 
Than the smiling eyes that hold 
My spirit with their glances bold ; — 

Tempest-gleams and lightning flashes. 

" Would that I had never strayed. 
Wayward, in the greenwood shade, 

Singing at the break of morn ! 
Those dear eyes had never dazed me, 
Those sweet words had never mazed me,— 

Would I never had been born ! 

"Then I saw him as a dream, 
Standing by the brawling stream. 

And I felt a sudden shiver 
Seize me as I gazed on him, — 
He was fishing by the brim 

Of the roaring mountain river. 

" Then he turned, and took the breath 
From my breast that shook beneath 

Those steadfast eyes ; he smiled and then 
I was bold, and broke the spell. 
And passed on proudly. . . . well, ah ! well 

I learned to love that smile again ! 

" Ah, me I miier broke the spell I — 
My love is more than 1 can tell ; 

It burns, it scorches .... yet I know 
This should not be: my babe, I wrong 
Thy father, but I am not strong — 

Worn weaker by this hidden woe. 

•• I never broke my marriage vows ; 
Thy father is my wedded spouse ; 

And if my heart be with another, 
God knows I've striven, howe'er in vain, 
Though baffled by the blissful pain, 

I've striven this wrongful love to smother. 



6i6 



J'OKMS OJ-- LOSS AND SORROW. 



•■ Thy sweet eyes open, baby mine : 
And from their depths of violet shine 

Such lustres pure of trustful love, 
I am rebuked. 1 dare not dwell 
In fancy on the baleful spell 

That turns me false to thee, sweet dove 1 



She broke in weeping : " Woe is me ! 
They said you died in Italy 

My mother almost starved " — then, wild 
With love, and the keen agony 
Of duty, sobbing bitterly. 

Fled moaning, "O my child I my child 



•■ Well I love thee, little child. 
Soothing with thy glances mild 

All my trouble. Thou wilt be 
My help, my angel ; thou wilt make 
Thy father kind for thy sweet sake, 

And charm away his cruelty." 

Laughing lightly, lightly sighing 
O'er the babe all calmly lying 

In her arms, she showered kisses 
On its tender mouth and brows ; 
And she felt a lover's vows 

Were not worth a mother's blisses. 

Then a step within a wood 
Stilled the beating of her blood. 

And she clasped her infant tight: 
In a dark tempestuous mood. 
The man she loved before her stood, 

And her face and lips grew white. 



Long stood he there in silent woe ; 
.\nd when the sun was dipping low 

Behind the larches of the glen. 
He knelt and wept, then pa.ssed away 
I'orever. Never from that day 

He lingered in those woods again. 

EDMtJND J. AR.MSTRONG. 



SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER- 
It was the eve of holy St. Bride, 

The Abbey bells were ringing. 
And the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 

The vesper hymns were singing. 
Alone, by the well of good St. Bride. 

A novice fair was kneeling! 
And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide 

One shade of earthly feeling. 



A man of noble gait was he, 
As fair a lord as you might see ; 

And his frown became him well 
When she rose and turned away, 
And took the homeward path that lay 

.\niong the wild flowers of the dell. 

He strode on. with passion pale. 
And her limbs began to fail 

When he touched her trembling arm. 
Then she uttered a low cr\' ; 
But he, •• Have comfort ; it is I; 

Mary, I never meant you harm. 

•• I loved you with all truth ; my love 
Is registered in Heaven above ; 

I would have made you wife, I swore. 
And I have never broken vow, — 
Ha ! there's a sadness on your brow ; — 

I never saw that gloom before. 

"Ah me I you loved me, then ? O why 
Did you not trust me ? I would die 

To save those saddened eyes from tears. 
Your doubts have made a young man old ; 
Such love as mine may not be told. 

Nor will it fade with lapse of years." 



For ne'er did that clear and sainted well 

Reflect, from its crystal water, 
A form more fair than the shadow that fell 

From O'Niall's lovely daughter. 
Her eye was bright as the blue concave. 

And beaming with devotion; 
Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave 

Of Erin's rolling ocean. 

Yet O ! forgive her that starting tear; 

From home and kindred riven. 
Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year. 

Must be the Bride of Heaven. 
Her beads were told, and the moonlight shone 

Sweetly on Callan Water, 
When her path was cross'd by a holy nun : — 

•■ Benedicite, fair daughter ! " 

Fair Kathleen started — well did she know — 

O what will not love discover I 
Her country's scourge, and her father's foe, — ' 

'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 
'• Raymond !"— " Oh hush, my Kathleen dear. 

My path's beset with danger ; 
But cast not, love, those looks of fear 

Upon thy dark-hair'd stranger. 



MAIRE NI MILLEOIN. 



617 



" My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove, 

My bark is out at sea, love ; 
My boat is moored in the ocean cove ; 

Then haste away with me, love ! 
My father has sworn my hand shall be 

To Sydney's daughter given ; 
And thine, to-morrow, will offer thee 

A sacrifice to heaven. 

" But away, my love, away with me 1 

The breeze to the west is blowing; 
And thither, across the dark-blue sea, 

Are England's bravest going, [bowers 

To a land where the breeze from the orange 

Comes over the exile's sorrow. 
Like the light-wing'd dreams of his early hours 

Or his hope of a happier morrow. 

" And there, in some valley's loneliness. 

By wood and mountain shaded. 
We'll live in the light of wedded bliss. 

Till the lamp of life be faded. 
Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly ! 

The storms of life we'll weather. 
Till in bliss beneath the western sky. 

We live, love, die together ! " — 

" Die, Saxon, now I" At that fiend-like yell 

An hundred swords are gleaming: [well, 
Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted 

His heart's best blood is streaming. 
In vain does he doff the hood so white, 

And vain his falchion flashing ; [bright 

Five murderous brands thro' his corselet 

Within his heart are clashing. 

His last groan echoing through the grove, 

His life blood on the water. 
He dies, — thy first and thy only love, 

O'Niall's hapless daughter I [snow ! 

Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of 

In vain that eye beseech'd them ; [blow. 
Thro' his Kathleen's heart, the murderous 

Too deadly aimed, has reach 'd him. 

The spirit fled with the red, red blood 

Fast gushing from her bosom ; 
The blast of death has blighted the bud 

Of Erin's loveliest blossom ! 
'Tis morn ; in the deepest doubt and dread 

The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
No sound save the requiem for the dead. 

Or knell of the death-bell tolling. 



'Tis dead of night ; not a sound is heard, 

Save from the night-wind sighing ; 
Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird. 

To yon pale planet crying. 
Who names the name of his murder'd child ? 

What spears to the moon are glancing.' 
'Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas wild, 

His bonnacht-men advancing. 

Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast, 

Fire from its blackness breaking.' 
Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast 

The voice of terror shrieking.' 
'Tis the fire from Ardsaillach's willow'd height. 

Tower and temple falling; 
'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 

From monks for mercy calling ! 

ANONYMOUS. 



MAIRE NI MILLEOIN. 
" Will you come where golden furze I mow. 

Mo Maire ni Milleoin?" 
" To bind for you I'd gladly go. 

My Bliss on Earth, mine own. 
To chapel, too, I would repair. 
Though not to aid my soul in prayer, 
But just to gaze with rapture where 

You stand, 1110 biichal baun." 

" Will you rove the garden glades with me, 

O Flower of Maids, alone .' " 
" What wondrous scenes therein to see. 

My Bliss on Earth, mine own .' " 
" The apples from green boughs to strike. 
To watch the trout leap from the lake, 
And caress a pretty caileii like 

Mo Maire ni Milleoin." 



" Will you seek with me the dim church aisle, 

O Maire ni Milleoin?" 
" What pleasant scenes to see the while. 

My Bliss on Earth, mine own .' " 
■' We'd list the chanting voice and prayer 
Of foreign pastor preaching there, 
O, we'd finish the marriage with my fair 

White Flower of Maids alone." 

She sought the dim church aisle with me, 

My Bliss on Earth, most fair ! 
She sought the dim church aisle with me, 

O grief ! O burning care ! 



6i8 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SORROW. 



I plunged my glittering, keen-edged blade 
In the bosom of that loving maid. 
Till gushed her heart's blood, warm and red, 
Down on the cold ground there. 

•• Alas I what deed is this you do.' 

My Bliss on Earth, mostore! 
What woful deed is this you do, 

O youth whom I adore .' 
Ah. spare our child and me. my love. 
And the seven lands of earth I'll rove 
Ere cause of grief to you 1 prove 

For ever — ever more I " 

I bore her to the mountain peak. 

The Flower of Maids, so lone, 
I bore her to the mountain bleak. 

My thousand woes, mo vroiie ! 
I cast my cota round her there. 
And. 'mid the murky mists of air, 
I fled with bleeding feet and bare 

From Maire ni Milleoin. 

GKORGE SlGEk.^DN. 
From the Irish. 



MAIRGREAD NI CHEALLEADH-^' 
At the dance in the village 

Thy white foot was fleetest; 
Thy voice mid the concert 

Of maidens was sweetest ; 
The swell of thy white breast 

Made rich lovers follow; 
And thy raven hair bound them. 

My Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

Thy neck was, lost maid ! 

Than the ceanaban whiter; 
And the glow of thy cheek 

Than the monadan brighter; 
But Death's chain hath bound thee. 

Thine eye's glazed and hollow 
That shone like a sun-burst. 

Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh 

No more shall mine ear drink 

Thy melody swelling; 
Nor thy beamy eye brighten 

The outlaw's dark dwelling ; 
Or thy soft heaving bosom 

My destiny hallow. 
When thine arms twine around me. 

Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 



The moss couch 1 brought thee 

To-day from the mountain 
Has drank the last drop 

Of thy young heart's red fountain, 
For this good skian l>eside me 

Struck deep and rung hollow 
In thy bosom of treason. 

Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

With strings of rich pearls 

Thy white neck was laden. 
And thy fingers with spoils 

Of the Sassenach maiden 
Such rich silks enrob'd not 

The proud dames of Mallow — 
Such pure gold they wore not 

As Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

Alas ! that my loved one 

Her outlaw would injure — 
A las I that he e'er proved 

Her treason's avenger 1 
That this right hand should make the 

\ bed cold and hollow. 
When in Death's sleep it laid thee. 

Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh ! 

And while to this lone cave 

My deep grief I'm venting 
The Saxons keen bandog 

My footsteps is scenting! 
But true men await me 

.\far in Duhallow.— 
Farewell, cave of slaughter. 

And Mairgread ni Chealleadh! 

KIiW.\Rl) WALSH. 
« the Irish. 



* Founded on Ihc Cork tnidilic 
outlaw, who killed his beautiful 
(Mairgr^d ni Chealleadh), for 
the English soldiers. 



Daniel O'Keefe^ an 
Margaret Kelly | 
> betray him lu 



THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.* 
They knelt around the Cross divine. 

The matron and the maid — 
They bowed before redemption's sign 

And fervently they prayed— 
Three hundred fair and helpless ones. 

Whose crime was this alone — 
Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons. 

Had battled for their own. 

Had battled bravely, but in vain— 

The Sa.xon won the fight. 
And Irish corses strewed the plain 

Where Valor slept with Right. 



> In the City of Wexford, 1569. 



KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. 



619 



And now that Man of demon guilt, 

To fated Wexford flew— 
The red blood reeking on his hilt. 

Of hearts to Erin true ! 

He found them there — the young, the old— 

The maiden and the wife ; 
Their guardian Brave in death were cold. 

Who dared for ilieiii the strife. 
They prayed for mercy — God on high ! 

Before thy cross they prayed. 
And ruthless Cromwell bade them die 

To glut the Saxon blade! 

Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer 

Was quenched in woman's blood; 
Nor youth nor age could move to spare 

From slaughter's crimson flood. 
But nations keep a stern account 

Of deeds that tyrants do ; 
And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount, 

And Heaven avenge it too ! 

MICHAEL J. BARRY. 



KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. 

The battle blood of Antrim had not dried on 
freedom's shroud, 

And the rosy ray of morning was but strug- 
gling thro' the cloud ; 

When, with lightning foot and deathly cheek, 
and wildly waving hair. 

O'er grass and dew, scarce breathing, flew 
young Kathleen ban Adair. 

Behind, her native Antrim in a reeking ruin 
lies ; [waters rise ; 

Before her, like a silvery path, Kell's sleeping 

And many a pointed shrub has pierc'd those 
feet so white and bare. 

But, oh ! thy heart is deeper rent, young Kath- 
leen ban Adair. 

And Kathleen's heart but one week since was 
like a harvest morn ; 

When hope and joy are kneeling 'round the 
sheaf of yellow corn ; 

But Where's the bloom then made her cheek 
so ripe, so richly fair? 

Thy stricken heart hath fed on it. young Kath- 
leen ban .'\dair. 

And now she gains a thicket, where tlie sloe 

and hazel rise ; 
But why those shrieking whispers, like a rusV 

of worded sighs? 



Ah ! low and lonely bleeding lies a wounded 

patriot there. 
And ever)' pang of his is thine, young Kathleen 

ban Adair. 

"I see them, oh! I see them, in a fearful red 
array ; 

The yeomen, love ! the yeomen come — ah, 
Heaven ! away — away ! 

I know — I know they mean to track my lion 
to his lair; 

Ah ! save thy life — ah ! save it for thy Kath- 
leen ban Adair." 

" May Heaven shield thee. Kathleen I when 
my soul has gone to rest ; 

May comfort rear her temple in thy pure and 
faithful breast ; 

But to fly them— oh ! to fly them, like a bleed- 
ing, hunted hare ; 

No I not to purchase Heaven, with my Kath- 
leen ban Adair. 

" I loved. I love thee. Kathleen, in my bosom's 
warmest core 

And Erin, injured Erin, oh ! I loved thee even 
more ; 

And death, I feared him little when I drove 
him through their square. 

Nor now. though eating at my heart, my Kath- 
leen ban Adair." 

With feeble hand his blade he grasp'd, yet 

dark with spoilers' blood ; 
And then, as though with dying bound, once 

more erect he stood ; 
But scarcely had he kissed the cheek, so pale, 

so purely fair, 
When flash'd their bayonets round him and 

his Kathleen ban Adair ; 

Then up arose his trembling, yet his dreaded 
hero's hand. 

And up arose, in struggling sounds, his cheers 
for motherland ; 

A thrust — a rush — their foremost falls ; but, 
ah ! good God ! see there — 

Thy lover's quivering at thy feet, young Kath- 
leen ban Adair! 

But. Heavens! men, what recked he then 
your heartless taunts and blows. 

When from his lacerated heart ten dripping 
bayonets rose ? 



620 



POEMS OF LOSS AND SO/iJtOH'. 



And. maiden, thou with frantic hands, what 
boots it kneeling there? 

The winds heed not thy yellow locks, young 
Kathleen ban Adair. 

Oh ! what were tears, or shrieks, or swoons, 

but shadows of the rest 
When torn was frantic Kathleen from the 

slaughtered hero's breast ? 
And hardly had his last-heaved sigh grown 

cold upon the air. 
When, oh ! of all but life they robbd young 

Kathleen ban Adair '. 

But whither nowshall Kathleen fly .'—already ! 
is she gone ; 

Thy water. Kells, is tempting fair, and thither 1 
speeds she on ; I 

A moment on its blooming banks she kneels I 
in hurried prayer— ^ | 

Now in lU wave she finds a grave, poor Kath- 
leen ban Adair I 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 



THE ORANGEMAN'S WIFE. 

I wander by the limpid shore. 
When fields and flowr'ets bloom ; 

But, oh ! my heart is sad and sore — 
My soul is sunk in gloom- 
All day I cry ohone ! ohone ! 
I weep from night till morn — 

I wish that I were dead and gone. 
Or never had been born. 

My father dwelt beside Tyrone. 

And with him children five ; 
But I to Charlemont had gone. 

At ser\'ice there to live. 
O brothers fond ! O sister dear ! 

How ill 1 paid your love ! 
O father '. father I how I fear 

To meet thy soul above ! 



My mother left us long ago. 

A lovely corpse was she ; 
But we had longer days of woe 

In this sad world to lie. 
My weary days will soon be done, 

I pine in grief forlorn ; 
I wish that I were dead and gone. 

Or never had been born. 

It was the year of Ninety-eight, 

The wreckers came about ; 
They burned my fathers stack of wheat. 

And drove my brothers out; 
They forced my sister to their lust — 

God grant my father rest ! 
For the captain of the wreckers thrust 

A bayonet through his breast. 

It was a dreadful, dreadful year ; 

And I was blindly led. 
In love, and loneliness, and fear, 

A /oj'a/ man to wed ; 
And still my heart is his alone. 

It breaks, but cannot turn : 
I wish that I were dead and gone. 

Or never had been born. 

Next year we lived in quiet love. 

And kissed our infant boy; 
And peace had spread her wings above 

Our dwelling at the Moy 
And then my wayworn brothers came 

To share our peace and rest 
And poor lost Rose, to hide her shame 

And sorrow in my breast. 

They came.but soon they turned and fled— 

Preserve my soul, O God 
It was my husband's hand, they said. 

That shed my father's blood. 
All day I crj' ochone! ochonel 

I weep from night till morn ; 
And O. that I were dead and gone. 

Or never had been born I 

'•CARROLL MALOXE." 



PART XII. 

MEMORIAL POEMS. 



Give me again my harp of yew — 

In consecrated soil 'twas grown; 
Shut out the day-star from my view, 

And leave me with the night alone! 
The children of this modern land 

May deem our ancient custom vain; 
But aye responsive to my hand 

The harp must pour the funeral strain. 

It was of old a sacred rite, 

A debt of honor freely paid 
To champions fallen in the fight. 

And scholars known in peaceful shade. 
Alas ! that rite should now be claimed, 

O world, for one we least can spare; 
Whose name by us was never named 

Without its meed of praise or prayer. 

THOMAS D'aRCY MCGEE. 



MEMORIAL POEMS, 



SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? 
Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who 
first gave 
To our countrv' a name, is withdrawn from 
all eyes ? 
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the 
grave, 
Where the first — where the last of her 
Patriots lies? * 

No — faint though the death-song may fall from 
his lips, 
Though his Harp, like his soul, mav with 
shadows be crost. 
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's 
eclipse. 
And proclaim to the world what a star hath 
been lost ; — 

■What a union of all the affections and powers 

By which life is exalted, embellish 'd, refined. 

Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre 

was ours. 

While its mighty circumference circled 

mankind ! 

O, who that loves Erin, or who that can see. 
Through the v.aste of her annals, that epoch 
sublime- 
Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
And his glor)' stand out to the eyes of all 
time. 

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the 
gloom 
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with 
his soul, 
A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her 
doom. 
And for owe sacred instant touch'd Liberty's 

goal ? 

■"• Grallan. 



Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank 
at the source 
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own. 
In whose high-thoughted daring the fire and , 
the force. 
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit 
are shown ? 

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 
Wander'd free and triumphant, with 
thoughts that shone through. 
As clear as the brook's " stone of lustre," and 
gave. 
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who that ever approach'd him, when free from 
the crowd, 
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and 
which bow'd, 
As if each brought a new civic crown for his 
head — 

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit 
of life 
But at distance observed him — through 
glory, through blame. 
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of 
strife. 
Whether shining or clouded, still high and 
the same ? — 



O no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but 
mourns 
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory 
is shrined — 
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong 
the urns 
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of man- 
kind! 

THOMAS MOORE. 



624 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



GRATTAN. 
God works iliro' man, not hills or snows! 

In man. not men, is the godlike power ; 
The man, Gods potentate, God foreknows ; 

He sends him strength at the destined hour. 
His spirit he breathes into one deep heart: 
His cloud he bids from one life depart: 
A Saint ! — and a race is to God re-born ! 
A Man I — one man makes a nation's morn I 

A man, and the blind land by slow degrees 
Gains sight! A man, and the deaf land 
hears! 
A man, and the dumb land like wakening seas 

Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears! 
One man, and the People, a three days' corse. 
Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off per- 
force ; 
One man, and the nation in height a span. 
To the measure ascends of the perfect man. 

I Thus wept unto God the land of Eire ; 

Yet there rose no man, and her hope was 
dead : 
In the ashes she sat of a burned-out fire. 

And sackcloth was over her queenly head. 

But a man in her latter days arose ; 

A deliverer stepped from the camp of her 

foes; 

i He spake ; the great and the proud gave way. 

And the dawn began which shall end in day ! 

AUEikF.V 7. UE VERB. 



OH ! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 
O ! breathe not his name— let it sleep in the 

shade. 
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are 

laid! 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er 

his head ! 

But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it 

weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 

he sleeps ; 
.■\nd the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it 

rolls. 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 

THOMAS MOORE. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD 
BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 
Yes. grief will have way — but the fast-falling 
tear 
Shall be mingled with deep execration on 
those 
Who could bask in that spirit's meridian 
career. 
And leave it thus lonely and dark at its 
close : 
Whose vanity flew round him only while fed 
By the odor his fame in its Summor-time 
gave; 
Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the 
dead. 
Like the ghoul of the East, comes to feed 
at his grave. 

Oh, it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hol- 
low 
And spirits so mean in the great and high 
born ; 
To think what a long line of titles may fol- 
low 
The relics of him who died friendless and 
lorn ! 

How proud they can press to the funeral 
array 
Of one whom they shunned in his sickness 
and sorrow ; 
How the bailiffs may seize his last blanket to- 
day 
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to- 
morrow. 

And thou. too. whose life, a sick epicures 
dream,* 
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had 
passed. 
Were it not for that cordial and soui-givmg 
beam 
Which his friendship and wit o er thy noth- 
ingness cast,— 

No, not for the wealth of the land that sup- 
plies thee 
With millions to heap upon Fopperj-'s 
shrine ; — 
No, not for the riches of all who despise 
thee. 
Though this would make Europe's whole 
opulence mine. 



' The Prince of Wales, afterward George the Fourth 



J 



THE BURIAL CF SIR JOHN MOORE. 



625 



Would I suffer what — even in the heart that In the woods of the North the/e are insects 

thou hast, that prey 

All mean as it is — must have consciously On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh , 

burned. O genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they, 

When the pittance which shame had wrung First feed on thy brains and then leave thee 

from thee at last. 1 to die. 

And which found all his wants at an end, jhoma.s moore. 
was returned. • 



•• Was this then the fate," future ages will say. 
When some names shall live but in history's 
curse ; 
When Truth will be heard, and those lords of 
a day 
Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as 
worse — 

•' Was tins then the fate of that high-gifted 
man — 1 

The pride of the palace, the bow'r, and the 
hall— 
The orator — dramatist — minstrel — who ran 
Through each mode of the lyre, and was 
master of all ! 

"Whose mind was an essence, compounded 
with art 
From the finest and best of all other men's 
pow'rs ; 
Who ruled like a wizard the world of the 
heart. 
And could call up its sunshine or bring- 
down its show'rs ; 

" Whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly's light, 

Play'd round every subject, and shone as it 

played ; 

Whose wit, in the combat as gentle as bright. 

Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its 

blade ; 

"Whose eloquence — bright'ning whatever it 
tried, 
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the 
grave — 
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave." 

Yes — such was the man, and so wretched his 

fate ; [grieve. 

And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to 

V/ho waste their morn's dew in the beams of 

the great. 

And expect 'twill return to refresh them at 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot. 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonl>eam's misty light. 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast. 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the 
dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the 1 



We thought as we hollow 'd his narrow bed. 
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er 
his head. 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone. 
And o'er liis cold ashes upbraid him. 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 
When the clock struck the hour for retiring : 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory'; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone 
But we left him alone with his glory ! 

CHARLES WOLFE. 



620 



MEMORUL rOEMS. 



THE BIRTH-NIGHT. I 

Moore Cfntennial in Boston, 1879. 
Strike a jubilant chord. O Earth, for the birth 
ol the Poet ! 
Welcome his conquering feel with harmony 
vibrant and strong ; 
Arch of the smiling sky, and blue sea-ripple 
below It, 
Welcome his conquering feet, who comes 
in the glory of song. 

Flush of the incoming day, and glowing of 
sunset splendor. 
Silent feet of the night treading her 
shining ways. 
Crooning of summer winds in lullaby dreamy 
and tender. 
Welcome the birth of the jioct with paeans 
of triumph and praise. 

For he is the breath of thy soul, the pulse of 
the heart of thy being. 
He is the voice of thy voice which speaks 
from the leaf and sod. 
Falling as healing and balm on spirit and 
eyes unseeing. 
And changing their darkness to light, like 
the touch of the chrism of God. 

O windswept harp of Innisfail, 

Wake from thy sleep to-night. 
Not faint with sorrow's lingering wail. 

But glad with life's delight ! 
For he who gave thy notes to fame 

And love and joy of yore, 
Brings the fair glory of his name 

To wreathe thy strings once more. 

His glory! Ay! The statesman's hand 

May fail with failing breath, orand. 

The thoughts which nerved the patriot's 

Go down with him in death ; 
But he whose song divine can thrill 

A nation's depths, shall last 
Tlirough every phase of doubt or ill. 

Immortal as her past. 

Thou soul of love ! Thou heart of fire ! 

That flamed for Erin's sake ; 
Whose light bade each fond hope aspire. 

Whose warmth kept life awake,— 
If. at thy name, the thought which starts 

Finds voice in faltering phrase, 
Tis that we hold thee in our hearts 

Too deep for idle praise. 



But while across Avoca's vale 

The shades of fancy rest. 
While the last roses fade and pali 

.-\bove the summer's breast, — 
While valor lives, or young love thrills 

The changeful moods of men, 
The charm which ail thy music fills 

Shall live and breathe again. 

And we, who of the whole broad earth 

Can never quite forget 
That race and creed and common birth 

Have brought thee nearer yet.— [known, 
Thus hail thee whom their souls have 

Thus hold thy memory shrined. 
Thy spirit for thy land alone, 

"Thy fame for all mankind ! 

MAKY E. BLAKE. 



THOMAS DAVIS-HIS LIFE, HIS DEATH, 
HIS WORK. 

I walked thro' Ballinderry in the springtime. 

When the bud was on the tree ; 
.\nd 1 said, in every fresh-ploughed field 
beholding 
The sowers striding free. 
Scattering broadcast forth the corn in golden 
plenty. 
On the quick seed-clasping soil. 
Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred 
hearts of Erin. 
Thomas Davis, is thy toil ! 

I I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer. 

And saw the salmon leap ; 
And 1 said as I beheld the gallant creatures 

Spring glittering from the deep. 
Thro' the spray and thro' the prone heaps 
striving onward 
To the calm, clear streams above. 
I So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom. 

Thomas Davis, 
' In thy brightness of strength and love ' 

I stood on Derrybawn in the autumn, 
! .\nd I heard the eagle call. [tion 

With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamenta- 
That tilled the wild mountain hall [eyrie. 
O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered 

.And I said, as he screamed and soared. 
So callest thou, thou wrathiul-soaring Thomas 
Davis. 
For a nation's rights restored ! 



TOM MOORE. 



627 



And, alas 1 to think but now and thou art lying. 

Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee ; 
And I, no mother near, on my own sick bed. 

That (ace on earth shall never see. [ing, 
I may lie and try to feel that I'm not dream- 

I may lie and try to say " Thy will be done." 
But a hundred such as I will never comfort 
Erin 

For the loss of her noble son! 

Young husbandman of Erin's faithful seed- 
time. 
In the fresh track of danger's plough ! 
Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous 
furrow. 
Girt with freedom's seed sheets now.' 
Who will banish with the wholesome crop of 
knowledge 
The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn. 
Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hope- 
ful planting 
Against the resurrection morn } 

Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom 

That swells round Erin's shore, [torrent 
Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive 

Of hate and bigotry no more ! [instinct. 
Drawn downward by their prone material 

Let them thunder on their rocks and foam ; 
Thou hast leaped, aspiring soul, to founts 
beyond the raging, 

vVhere troubled waters never come ! 

But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie. 

That thy wrathful cry is still. 
And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners 

Are heard to-day on Erin's hill ; 
Better far if brothers' war be destined for us, 

(God avert that horrid day, I pray I) 
That ere our hands be stained with slaughter 
fratricidal 

Thy warm heart should be cold in clay ! 

But my trust is strong in God, who made us 

brothers. 

That he will not suffer those right hands 

Which thou hast joined in holier rites than 

wedlock. 

To draw opposing brands. [vocal 

Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad'st 

Would lie cold and silent then ; 
And songless long once more should often- 
widowed Erin 
Mourn the loss of her brave young men 



Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my 

'Tis on you my hopes are set, [promise. 

In manliness, in kindliness, in justice. 

To make Erin a nation yet. 
Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing. 

In union or in severance free and strong. 
And if God grant this, then, under God, to 
Thomas Davis 

Let the greater praise belong. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



TOM MOORE. 
A Centennial Ode. 1879. 
Weave a crown for the bard of the evergreen 
oak! 
Who, when Innisfallen lay captive in gyves, 
Seized the harp of his land and such melodies 
woke 
That each of their measures immortal 
survives ; 
Twenty lustrums have fled since the minstrel 
first came 
With music to lighten his motherland's 
wrongs. 
Yet the lapse of the years has but hallowed 
his fame. 
The passage of time only mellowed his 
songs. 

Like to children who lift pearly shells from 
the shore 
To listen to tidings from far-away mains, 
So we take up his harp that is voiceless no 
more, 
And wait for the songs which we know it 
retains : 
And we marvel what sweetness, oh, minstrel, 
was thine, 
What power of enchantment, what magic of 
word. 
For the echoes we catch of thy music divine 
Surpass all the strains that our ears ever 
heard. 

And we biame not the bard if, when struggles 
were void. 
He lost for the moment remembrance of 
pain, 
While he sang of the past till men's hearts 
overjoyed. 
Forgot in its glories the weight of their 
chain ; 



628 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



In the deluge of blood which his forefathers 
shed 
Was written their love for the freedom of 
man. 
And the bard who sang paeans of praise for 
the dead 
Continued the struggle those heroes began. 

Like the murmurs of breezes in spice-scented 
groves, 
Like purling of brooklets through odorous 
plains. 
Are the songs of this harp when they whisper 
their loves 
In words which re-echo the passionate 
strains: 
But the strings which vibrate to a lover's 
complaint 
Can answer the sweep of a patriot's hand; 
And the voice which love renders submis- 
sively faint 
Can thrill with the tones of a leader's 
command. 

Though. Devizes, thy willows weep over the 
dust 
Of him unto whom all this homage belongs ; 
It is only his ashes you hold in your trust, 
His spirit survives in the rhythm of his 
songs ; 
And as long as the language his poems 
enrich. 
As long as the land that he loved may 
endure, 
Will the voice of her people decree the first 
niche [Moore. 

In the temole of song to the minstrel, Tom 

WILLIAM 1). KELLY. 



Above that pulseless heart, once warm 
j With many a high and grand desire. 
That mouldering brain, in calm or storir 
Once radiant with celestial fire. 



It may not be — it may not be ! 
I No sign shall rise those relics o'er — 
! The river wild, the restless sea. 
I Will hide and hold them evermore. 
I We can but pray, in faith's fond light, 
I God rest his soul, the true and brave. 

Whose mortal part went down that night. 
Beneath Missouri's turbid wave! 

TIMOTHY U. SULLIVAN 



I THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 

Ah. would to God his grave had been 
I On mountain side, in glen, or plain. 
I Beneath the turf kept soft and green 
I By wind and sunshine, dew and rain ; 
'■ That men and maids, in after years, 
I Might come where slept the true and brave, 
I And plant, and wet with flooding tears. 
The Irish shamrock on his grave ; 

That warriors, poets, patriots, there 
Might often come to muse and pray. 

Within the genius-haunted air, 

Above that mound of honored clav — 



CLARENCE MANoAN. 

*' Ofl, with tears. I've groaned tci God for pity, 
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim, — 

Oft sang unto Him a prayerful ditty,— 

Oft all lonely in this throngful city, 
Raised my soul to Him ! 

And from path to path His mercy tracked me. 
From many a peril snatched He me; 

When false friends pursued, betrayed, attacked 

When gloom overdarked. and sickness racked m 
He was by to save and free." 



Yes! happy friend, the cross was thine; 'tis 

o'er a sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail, to reach 

their native spheres ; 
May Christ, the Crowned of Calvar)'. who died 

upon a tree. 
Bequeath His tearful chalice and the bitter 

cross to me ! 

The darken'd land is desolate — a wilderness 

of graves ! 
Our purest hearts are prison-bound, our exiles 

on the waves ; 
Gaunt Famine stalks the blasted plains — the 

pestilential air 
O'erhangs the gasp of breaking hearts, or 

stillness of despair. 

The ebbing blood of Ireland is shed by foreign 

streams. 
Where our kinsmen wake lamenting when 

they see her in their dreams ; 
O I happy are the peaceful dead ! — 'tis not for 

thee we weep. 
Whose troubled spirit restsat length in calmly 

laurelled sleep. 



M/TCHEL—\i7i. 



629 



No chains are on thy folded hands, no tears 

bedim thine eyes, 
But round thee bloom celestial flowers in ever 

tranquil skies ; 
While o'er our dreams thy mystic songs, faint, 

sad, and solemn, flow, 
Like light that left the distant stars ten 

thousand years ago. 

If any shade of earthliness bedimmed thy 
spirit's wings, 

Well cleansed thou art in sorrow's ever-salu- 
tary springs ; 

And even bitter suffering, and still more bit- 
ter sin. 

Shall only make a soul like thine more beauti- 
ful within. 

For every wound that humbles, if it do not 

all destroy. 
Shall nerve the heart for nobler deeds, and 

fit for purer joy ; 
As the demigod of fable-land, as olden legends 

say, 
Rose up more strong and valorous each time 

he touched the clay. 

Tears deck the spul with virtues, as soft rains 
the flowery sod. 

And the inward eyes are purified for clearer 
dreams of God : 

'Tis sorrow's hand the temple-gates of holi- 
ness unbars; 

By day we only see the earth, 'tis night re- 
veals the stars. 

Alas! alas! the minstrel's fate!— his life is 

short and drear, 
And if he win a wreath at last, 'tis but to 

shade a bier ; 
His harp is fed with wasted life— to tears its 

numbers flow — 
And strung with chords of broken hearts is 

Dreamland's splendid woe ! 

O Father of the harmonies eternally that 

roll 
Life, light and love to trillioned sons, receive 

the Poet's soul ! 
And bear him in Thy bosom from this vale of 

tears and storms, 
To swell the sphere-hymns thundered from 

the rushing starry swarms. 



Sleep, happy friend ! The cross was thine: 'tis 

o'er a sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail to reach their 

native spheres. 
May Christ, the Crowned of Calvary, who died 

upon a tree. 
Vouchsafe His tearful chalice and the bitter 

cross to me. 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
From a ' •Lament for Clarence Mangan." 



MITCHEL-1875. 
On the kind bosom of his own loved land. 

After long years of passionate unrest. 
In far-off climes, by strange Australian strand, 

Or 'm id the tumults of the strong, free West ; 
After long years of bold, unceasing strife 

For one dear thing — his country's liberty, 
The dream and purpose of his stainless life — 

He sank in peaceful slumber, and was free. 

Free! He was ever free! Though fetters bound. 

And power threatened from a frowning 
throne ; 
Tho' dungeons closed upon him, and the sound 

Of gyves went with him to the farthest 
zone, — 
Yet his proud soul no thraldom ever knew ; 

The eagle, soaring in the summer sky. 
Was not more free, lord of the boundless blue. 

Than he in hard and stern captivity ! 

The metal of his mind was truest steel, 

Tempered in honor's incandescent flame; 
flis heart pure gold, whereon the glowing seal 

And stamp of Truth shone evermore the 
same : 
Kingly he was in all that should beconje 

A monarch ruling for the right alone ; 
No high, proud spirit of imperial Rome 

Was bolder, loftier, statelier than his own. 

O, Erin, Mecca of his faithful love, 

O sad. fair land, whereto he ever turned. 
From northern shores, where wintr\' tempests 
strove. 
Or southern glades, where tropic splendors 
burned. 
Homeward to thee at length in age he went, 

Eager to lead once more the gallant fight, 
A time-worn chief, with manhood's vigor 
spent, 
But ardent still, and dauntless for the right ! 



630 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



Homeward to lift the dear old flag once more 
And fold it round and round his glowing 
heart ; 
To speak brave words, and speak them o'er 
and o'er. 
Though each should draw from foes a fatal 
dart;— 
Homeward to thee, O land he loved so well. 

To die for thee, if death could serve or save : 
Loyal and staunch and brave what'er befell. 
And proud to take thy last sad gift— a grave ! 

And this thou gavest, Erin, this at last — 

B\it first a noble garland thou did'st make, 
And fondly set upon him ere he passed 

Forever hence, a martyr for thy sake — 
A garland twined of honor's brightest bays. 

Woven by hands that never shrank in strife, | 
Then witnessed in the closing of his days I 

The perfect rounding of a peerless life ! ' 



Peace to his soul I — great soul that ne'er could 
brook 
One fawning thought or sycophantic word ; 
Heroic soul, that loftily forsook 
All ways save those where Truth's clear 
voice was heard — 
Peace and sweet rest ! Where Ulster airs are 
bland. 
Calmly he slumbers now with kindred dust. 
Leaving to thee, O mourning Motherland, 
His life's grand lesson as a sacred trust ! 

Immortal names adorn thy patriot scroll, 

O sad-eyed land of suffering and song. 
And splendor gilds the honorable roll 

Of sons who sought to save thee from the 
strong ; 
But none e'er lived and died for thee alone 

That loved thee, served thee, strove for thee 
alway. 
With heart more true, or soul of statelier tone. 

Than he who sleeps by Newry's shades to- 



day. 



IIAXIKI. CCJXXOLLY. 



O'CONNELL, 



Into the senate swept the mighty chief. 
Like sonic great ocean wave across the bar 
Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef 
But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. 1 

Into the Senate his triumphal car j 



Rushed like a conqueror's thro' the broken 

gates 
Of some fallen city, whose defenders are 
Powerful no longer to resist their fates. 
But yield at last to him, whom wondering 

Fame awaits. 

And as " sweet foreigfti Spencer " might have 

sung. 
Yoked to the car, two winged steeds were 

seen. 
With eyes of fire, and flashing hoofs outflung, 
As if Apollo's coursers they had been. 
These were quick Thought and Eloquence. I 

ween. 
Bounding together with impetuous speed. 
While overhead there waved a flag of green, 
Which seemed to urge still more each flying 

steed. 
Until they reached the goal the hero had 

decreed. 

There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound. 
Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance. 
Whom, as his blood-shot eyeballs glared 

around, 
As if to kill with their malignant glance, 
I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. 
But now no longer had he power to slay. 
For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's 
His horrid form revealing by its ray, [lance. 
And showed how foul a fiend the world could 

once obey. 

Then followed after him a numerous train 
Each bearing trophies of the field he won : 
Some the white wand, and some the civic 
In golden letters glist'ning in the sun ; [chain. 
Some — for the reign of justice had begun-- 
The ermine robes that soon would be the prize 
Of spotless lives that all pollution shun. 
And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes 
And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from 
the skies. 

■ 875. 
If in the rising hopes of recent years 
A mighty sound reverberates in our ears. 
And myriad voices in one cry unite. 
For restoration of a ravished right. 
'Tis the great echo of that thunder-blast 
On Tara pealed, or mightier Mullaghmast. 
If art and letters are more widely spread. 
A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed. 
Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given 



DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



631 



Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for 

heaven ; 
If Science still, in not unholy walls, [halls. 
Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered 
And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, 
While capped Exclusion slowly opes its doors. 
It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, 
It is his hand the long-locked door throws 

wide. 
Where'er we turn, the same effect we find. — 
OConnell's voice still speaks his country's 

mind. 
Therefore we gather to his birthday feast, 
Prelate and peer, the people and the priest ; 
Therefore we come, in one united band, 
To hail in him the hero of the land. 
To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim 
To all the winds, on all the wings of fame. 
Waft to the listening world the great O'Con- 

nell's name. 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
From "O'Conm-ll Ccnlcnnml Ode, 1S75." 



TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT. 
In deep dejection, but with afiEection, 

I often think of those pleasant times ; 
In the days of " Frazer," ere I touched a razor. 
How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes; 
When in wine and wassail, we to thee were 
vassal. 
Of •• Water-grass Hill," O renowned " P. P." 
May the bells of Shandon 
Toll blithe and bland on 
The pleasant waters of thy memory ! 

Full manya ditty, both wise and witty, 

In this social city have I heard since then — 
(With the glass before me, how the dreams 
come o'er me, 
Of those Attic suppers and those vanished 
men !) 
But no song hath woken, whether sung or 
spoken. 
Or hath left a token of such joy in me. 
As " the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee." 

The songs melodious, which — a new Harmo- 
dius — 
" Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel 
sword, 



With their deep vibrations and aspirations. 
Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive 
board ! 
But to me seems sweeter, with a tone com- 
pleter. 
The melodious metre that we owe to thee — 
Of the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

There's a grave that rises on thy sward, 
Devizes, 
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land 
afar; 
And a white stone flashes o'er Goldsmith's 
ashes 
In the quiet cloisters by Temple Bar ; 
So where'er thou sleepest. with a love that's 
deepest. 
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song 
and thee, 
While the bells of Shandon 
Shall sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 



DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
Nevermore your heart will weary, 
Waiting for the May, 
Nevermore, sweet Celtic singer. 
March and April, when they linger. 
Will appear as dark and dreary 

As they did that day, 

When your sighing heart was wearj'. 

Waiting for the May. 

Peace attend your soul that slumbers 
While awakes the May I 
In our eyes the tear-drops glisten. 
In the meadows as we listen 
For the sweetness of your numbers 
Which have passed away — 
W^ith your gentle soul that slumbers 
While awakes the May. 

Nay ! we wrong you who, when living. 

Waited for the May ; 

When we say your spirit slumbers. 

Since the echoes of its numbers. 

Without shadow of misgiving. 

In this world delay; 

And we wrong you who, when living. 

Waited for the May. 



6X2 



Mh.MUAJ.ll. /(ihM: 



Til the buttercups and daisies 
In the meads of May. 
Kvcry breeze that lightly |)asses 
Where these spring amid the grasses, 
Of your virtues and your praises 

Sings a tuneful lay ; 
To the buttercups and daisies 
In the meads of May. 

In the sobbing of the ocean. 

All this month of May : 
We shall hear your verse undying 
Where the hardy seamew. flying 
In its swift and graceful motion. 

Seeks the lower bay ; 
In the sobbing of the ocean, 

All this month of May. 

Could we only be translated 

Where you are this May ; 
Could we see the fields elysian 
Which have opened on your vision. 
We would know your heart that waited 

Was content to-day : 
Could we only be translated 

Where you are this May. 

Nevermore there will you weary. 
Waiting for the May ; 
Nevermore, sweet Irish singer, 
March and April, when they linger. 
Will appear as dark and dreary 

As they did the day. 

When your sighing heart grew weary. 

Waiting for the May. 

WILLIAM 1). KKLLV. 



True have ye writ, ye fond and leal. 
And, if the lines would stand so long. 
! Until the archangel's trumpet f)eal 

Should wake the silent son of song. 
Broad on his breast he still might wear 
The praises ye have planted there ! 

Let it be told to old and young. 
At home, abroad, at fire, at fair. 

Let it be written, spoken, sung. 
Let it be sculptured, pictured fair. 

How the young braves stood, weeping, round 

Their exiled poet's ransom d mound ! 

How lowly knelt, and humbly pray'd 
The lion-hearted brother band 

Around the monument they made 
For him who sang the Fatherland ! — 

A scene of scenes, where glory's shed 

Both on the living and the dead ! 

Sing on, ye gifted ! never yet 
Has such a spirit sung in vain ; 

No change can teach us to forget 
The burden of that deathless strain ; 

Be true, like him, and to your graves 

Time yet shall lead his youthful braves ! 

THOM.iVS t)'.\RCV M^GEE 



GOLDSMITH'S GRAVE, 
I love this quiet Temple nook. 
This ancient haunt of wren and rook. 
Thick writ with legends like a book. 



GOD BLESS THE BRAVE 1 
God bless the brave ! the brave alone 

Were worthy to have done the deed ; 
A soldier's hand has raised the stone, 

Another traced the lines men read. 
Another set the guardian rail 
Above thy minstrel— In isfail !* 

A thousan4 years ago— ah ! then 
Had such a harp in Erin ceased. 

His cairn had met the eyes of men, 
By every passing hand increas'd. 

God bless the brave! not yet the race 

Could coldly pass his resting-place. 



• < <n the crciliini of a marble slab at the grave of Richard 
l>altiMi Williams, near New Hrleans, by Companies C and K 
of the Eighth New Hain|>!shire Voluntcere, during the war for 



Dark-circled in the town it lies, 
; Above it loom the misty skies. 
Outside the songs of commerce rise. 

Ten paces from the battling stre 
Lurks the old-fashioned, quaint retreat, 
.\ land of murmurs loud and sweet. 

Afar the yellow river gleams. 
Within there is a sound of streams. 
An island lulled in dreams it seems. 

There, open to the sun and rain. 
There, alien unto tears and pain. 
There, whilst the seasons wax or wane. 

Rich-hearted Goldsmith takes his rest, 
I Earth's silent, unobtrusive guest, 
1 Between the sunrise and the West. 



ROBERT EMMET. 



633 



Great gable roofs rise all around, 
Their tops in clouds of vapor drowned ; 
Vast shadows floor the level ground. 

A fountain sings, and, when it stops, 
Bell-like from out a privet copse 
The robin's benediction drops. 

Bravely he sleeps, and never knows 
When Spring comes flying o'er the snows 
When Summer wears her palm and rose. 

The ages change : unconscious, he, 
Divorced from this reality, 
Lives in fair immortality. 

His genius, ripe and secular. 
To us is no cloud-brooding star: 
God knoweth how it flames afar — 

How, risen above this misty state, 
Moved by an impulse swift and straight, 
It burns at heaven's magnific gate. 

Ah ! dear, dear poet, lord of heart. 
Master and mystery of art. 
In thee the Graces were apart. 

Couched in a cell of vulgar clay 
Thy soul's irradiant beauty lay, 
A sepulchre from day to day. 

But ever in thy noblest theme, 
Ever in thy heart's sweetest dream, 
Ireland and Auburn were thy theme. 



The two were one ; and she who 
Gathering weeds, where lilies glassed 
Their faces, and the whirlpools massed 

Their currents, was a subtle thought 
Of Ireland cursed and overwrought, 
Of Ireland cursed and wrongly sought. 

Others, indeed, have sung a strain 
Of terror, passion, peace, or pain ; 
They've passed away — thy songs remain. 

Here in this quiet Sabbath light. 
Whilst the sad trees are gold and bright, 
I stand, no priest, no Sybarite, 

Beside thy grave, thy lonely urn. 

Whilst all the trees, that flame and burn, 

Despondent o'er thine ashes mourn. 

JOHN F. o'DONNELL. 



ROBERT EMMET. 

In the darkness of defeat. 

In the midnight of despair, 
Ireland, struggling to her feet, 

Gasped for Freedom's light and air. 
Dead the tires of 'Ninety-eight, 

In her best blood's torrents quench'd, 
And within the nation's gate 

Firmer was the foe entrench'd. — 
One more eft'ort, fierce and brave, 
For Liberty, had failed to save. 

Drugged with misery, weak with pain. 

The remnant of her rights they stole ; 
And, sinking 'neath oppression's strain. 

They hold her captive and in dole. 
O who will burst her dungeon's door? 

Brutal tyrants hold the key : — 
Who will lift her from the floor? 

Who will set the captive free .' — 
Be savior of a land so fair ? — • 
Emmet answers, " I will dare !" 

Glorious Emmet I from thy soul 

The God of Justice strikes the spark 
That lights a people to the goal 

Of Freedom, through Egyptian dark; — 
Gives thy brave arm, tho' young, the power 

To lift a prostrate nation up. 
Revive her in extremest hour. 

Hold to her lips the strengthening cup ! 
Vice-regent of the God of Right, 
Let thy young arm the despot smite ! 

The beauty of thy youthful face. 

The quenchless courage of thine eyes. 
Are but the faint reflected grace 

Of soul anointed from the skies. 
Surcharged with swift celestial fire 

To give a dymg nation life. 
And consecrate the brave desire 

To never cease the glorious strife 

Till tyrants shrink from Freedom's sun, 
And the martyr's mission's won. 

Thy monument, — ten million hearts. 

All warm and throbbing like thine own ! 
To dolts and despots leave the arts 

Of memory-marking brass and stone ; 
Deep branded is thy epitaph 

Across thy country's mind and soul, — 
The sun illuminates but half 

The world — thy fame surrounds the whole ! 
And on our roll of martyrs prized, 
Emmet, thou art the canonized ! 



634 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



Emmet, k-l the minstrel's song 

Croon no nerveless dirge for thee; 
Like thy courage, be it strong. 

Like thy fearless spirit, free — 
Strong to lift a drooping land. 

Thrill it with Promethean fire ; 
Scorn — lliy scorn — should blast the hand 

That dared to strike a dismal lyre ! 
No weak regrets for soul like thine 
Shall e'er be moaned by muse of mine. 

England's flag is Ireland's pall. — 

Brothers, from the bending skies 
Emmet watches for its fall, 

In its place the Harp to rise! 
Brothers, give his spirit joy! 

Swear we on his natal day. 
Feuds, dissensions to destroy, — 

Shade of Emmet, lead the way! 
Here we swear to God and thee, 
Emmet, Ireland shall be free! 

PATRICK SAKSFIELI) CASSIDY. 



WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
What sliall we mourn .■" For the prostrate tree 

that sheltered the young green wood ? 
For the fallen cliff that fronted the sea, and 

guarded the fields from the flood? 
For the eagle that died in the tempest, afar 

from its eyrie's brood ? 

Nay, not for these shall we weep ; for the sil- 
ver cord must be worn. 

And the golden fillet shrink back at last, and 
the dust to its earth return : 

And tears are never for those who die with 
their face to the duty done ; 

But we mourn for the fledgelings left on the 
waste, and the fields where the wild 
waves run. 

From the midst of the flock he defended, the 

brave one has gone to his rest ; 
And the tears of the poor he befriended their 

wealth of affliction attest. 
From the midst of the people is stricken a 

symbol they daily saw. 
Set over against the law books, of a Higher 

than Human Law ; 
For his life was a ceaseless protest, and his 

\'oice was a prophet's cry 
To be true to the Truth and faithful, though 

the world were arrayed for the Lie. 



; From the hearing of those who hated, a 
j threatening voice has past; 

But the lives of those who believe and die are 
not blown like a leaf on the blast. 

A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman 
j that hewed to the light, 

j Who dared to be traitor to Union when Union 
I was traitor to right ! 

I" Fanatic !" the insects hissed, ti' he taught 

them to understand 
"j That the highest crime may be written in the 

highest law of the land. 
! ■' Disturber" and " Dreamer " the Philistines 

cried when he preached an ideal creed, 
I Till they learned that the men who have 
i changed the world with the world have 

disagreed ; 
That the remnant is right, when the masses 
I are led like sheep to the pen ; 

j For the instinct of equity slumbers till roused 

by instinctive men. 

I It is not enough to win rights from a king and 
write them down in a book; 

New men, new lights; and the fathers' code 
the sons may never brook. 

What is liberty now were license then ; their 
freedom our yoke would be ; 

And each new decade must have new men to 
determine its liberty. 

Mankind is a marching army, with a broaden- 
ing front the while : 

Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or 
clear to the outward file? 

Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither 
tongue nor pen 

Of the human spideis whose silk is wove from 
the lives of toiling men. 

Come, brothers, here to the burial I But weep 

not. rather rejoice. 
For his fearless life and his fearless death ; for 

his true, unequalled voice. 
Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of 

human right ; 
For his brave heart always ready to enter the 

weak ones' fight ; 
For his soul unmoved by the mob's wild shout 

or the social sneer's disgrace ; 
For his freeborn spirit that drew no line 

between class or creed or race. 

Come, workers ; here was a teacher, and the 
lesson he taught was good : 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 



635 



There are no classes or races, but one human 

brotherhood ; 
There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors 

of skin debarred ; 
Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs — one 

right, one hope, one guard. 
By his life he taught, by his death we learn 

the great reformer's creed : 
The right to be free, and the hope to be just, 

and the guard against selfish greed. 
And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on 

his coffin lid laid down 
By the toil-stained hands of workmen — their 

sob, their kiss and their crown. 

JOHN BOVLE o'REILLV. 



THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 

The soldier's last tattoo ! 
No more on life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 
And Glory guards with solemn round 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts. 

Of loved ones left behind ; 
No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms. 
No braying horn, no screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust ; 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust. 

Is now their martial shroud — 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 
And the proud forms, in battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing steed, the flashing blade. 

The bugle's stirring blast. 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade. 

The din and shout, are past. 
Nor war's wild notes, r.or glory's peal. 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 



Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, 

Come down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Know well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or death I" 

Full many a Norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain. 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moulder'd slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
Alone now wakes each solemn height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 

Sons of the dark and bloody ground ! 

Ye must not slumber there ; 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air ; 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 

Shall be 3'our fitter grave ; 
She claims from war its richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field ; 
Borne to a Spartan's mother's breast. 

On many a bloody shield. 
The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here. 
And kindred hearts and eyes watch by 

The hero's sepulchre. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear is the blood you gave — 
No impious footsteps here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps. 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minster's voiceful stone, 

In deathless song shall tell. 
When many a vanished year hath flown. 

The story how you fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. 

Nor Time's remorseless doom. 
Can dim one ray of holy light 

That gilds your glorious tomb. 

THEODORE O'HARA. 



636 



MEMORIAL. POEMS. 



VIVE VALEQUE. 

O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne. 
dear mother isle. 

Take home to thy sweet still waters thy son 
whom we lend thee awhile ; 

Twenty years has he poured out his song, 
epic echoes heard in our street, 

Twenty years have the sick been made strong 
as they heard the sound of his feet ; 

For few there be in his lands whom Apollo 
deigns to choose. 

On whose head to lay both hands of medicine- 
gift and the muse. 

Double-grieved because double-gifted, now 
take him and make strong again 

The heart long-winnowed and sifted on the 
threshing-floor of pain. 

Saving others, he saved not himself, like a 
ship-master strong and brave. 

Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf, 
while he alone sinks in the wave. 

The child in the night cries " Mother!" and 
the mother straight brings peace ; 

lerne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, 
and his plague shall cease. 

Thou gavest him once as revealer song- 
breath and the starrj' scroll. 

Give him now as the heart's best healer life- 
breath and balms for the soul. 

O saddest of all the sad islands, green girt by 
thy mother the sea. 

Fold warm, and feed with thy silence, the 
child whom we send to thee. 

O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne, 

sweet mother isle, 
Say, how canst thou heal at thy waters the 

son whom we lend thee awhile.' 
When the gathering cries implore thee to 

help and to heal thy kind, 
When the dying are strewn before thee, thy 

living ones crouch behind ; 
When about thee thy perishing children cling, 

crjing, " Thou only art fair ! 
We have seen through Life's maze bewilder- 
ing how the earth-gods never spare ;" 
And the wolves, blood-ripe with slaughter, 

gnar at thee with fangs of steel ; 
Thou, Niobe-land of the water, hast many 

children to heal. 
Yet heal //////, lerne, dear mother, thy days 

with his days shall increase ; 
At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half 

of thy pangs shall cease. 



I Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land,^4U 

places are near on the globe, — 
Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love 

for thy festival robe. 
While we keep through glory and gloom two 

altar-candles for thee, 
' Thy " Blanid " of deathless doom, and thy 

dead but undying "Deirdre." 
And may He who builds in His patience the 

houses which death reveals. 
Round whom the fair constellations are dust 

from His chariot wheels; 
Who showers His coin without scorning, each 

day as He issues it bright. 
The sun as His gold in the morning, the stars 

as His silver at night. 
The love which feedeth the sparrow and 

watcheth the little leaf. 
Which guideth the death-laden arrow and 
I counteth each grain of grief. 

j Change thy life-chant from its minor, and 
I spread thy spirit serene. 

As gold before the refiner whose face is r< - 
fleeted therein. 

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 
From a poem written after the departure of Dr. 
Robert Duyer Joyce from Boston for Ireland. 



A DIRGE.* 
Toll. bell. 

With solemn knell, 
For him who fell 

In the galloping fight! 
Trumpets, ring 
To the dirge we sing 
In our hearts that cling 

Round the spirit so bright ! 

Roll, drum. 

As the vaulted tomb 

For his early doom, 

Is gaping drearily ! 
Cold and dead. 
In his stony bed 

Lay him, who lately sang so cheerily I 

Hush, hush ! 

The memories rush 

With impetuous gush 

On heart and head : 
Speak low, — 
None of us know 
Half we forego 

In the gallant dead. 

ncmory of Kitz-JamcsO'BricD. 



ON A'A/SnVC A MONUMENT TO THE IK/SH LEG/ON. 



637 



Plant flowers. 

Not where April showers, 

But tears, like ours. 

Shall make them bloom, — 
And their breath impart 
To each kindred heart 
In the crypt of which 

Is the poet's tomb! 

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. 



THE OLD PIONEER. 
A Dirge for Daniel Boone. 
A dirge for the brave old pioneer, 

Knight-errant of the wood ! 
Calmly beneath the green sod here 

He rests from field and flood ; 
The war-whoop and the panther's screams 

No more his soul shall rouse. 
For well the aged hunter dreams 

Beside his good old spouse. 

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ; 

Hushed now his rifle's peal ; 
The dews of many a vanished year 

Are on his rusted steel ; 
His horn and pouch lie mouldering 

Upon the cabin floor ; 
The elk rests by the salted spring. 

Nor flees the fierce wild boar. 



A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 

Old Druid of the West ! 
His offering was the fleet wild deer. 

His shrine the mountain's crest ; 
Within his wild-wood temple's space 

An Empire's towers nod. 
Where erst, alone of all his race. 

He knelt to Nature's God. 



A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 

Columbus of the land ! 
Who guided freedom's proud career 

Beyond the conquered strand. 
And gave her pilgrim sons a home 

No monarch's step profanes. 
Free as the chainless winds that roam 

Upon its boundless plains. 

A dirge for the brave old pioneer ! 

The muffled drums resound ; — 
A warrior is sleeping here 

Beneath his battle-ground , 



For not alone with beasts of prey 
The bloody strife he waged ; — 

Foremost where'er the deadly fray 
Of savage combat raged ! 

A dirge for the brave old pioneer, 

A dirge for his old spouse, — 
For her who blest his forest cheer. 

And kept his birchen house. 
Now soundly by her chieftain may 

The brave old dame sleep on ; 
The red man's step is far away. 

The wolf's dread howl is gone. 

A dirge for the brave old pioneer — 

His pilgrimage is done ; 
He hunts no more the grizzly bear 

About the setting sun ; 
Weary at last of chase and life 

He laid him here to rest. 
Nor recks he now what sport or strife 

Would tempt him further West. 

A dirge for the brave old pioneer. 

The patriarch of his tribe ! 
He sleeps — no pompous pile marks where— 

No lines his deeds describe. 
They raised no stone above him here, 

Nor carved his deathless name ; — 
An Empire is his sepulchre. 

His epitaph is Fame. 

THEODORE O'HARA. 



I ON RAISING A MONUMENT TO THE IRISH 

LEGION. 
To raise a column o'er the dead. 

To strew with flowers the graves of those 
Who long ago, in storms of lead, 
And where the bolts of battle sped. 

Beside us faced our Southern foes ; 
To honor these — the unshriven, unhearsed — 

To-day we sad sur\'ivors come. 
With colors draped, and arms reversed. 
And all our souls in gloom immersed, 
j With silent fife and muftled drum. 

In mournful guise our banners wave, 

Black clouds above the " sun-burst " lower ; 

We mourn the true, the young, the brave, 
I Who for this land that shelter gave. 

Drew swords in peril's deadliest hour — 



6;S 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



For Irish soldiers, fighting here 

As when Lord Clare was bid advance, 
And Cumberland beheld with fear 
The old green banner swinging clear 
To shield the broken lines of France. 

We mourn them ; not because they died 

In battle, for our destined race. 
In every field of warlike pride. 
From Limerick's wall to India's tide. 

Have borne our flag to foremost place , 
As if each sought the soldier's trade. 

While some dim hope within him glows. 
Before he dies, in line arrayed. 
To see the old green flag displayed 

For final fight with Ireland's foes. 

For such a race the soldier's death 

Seems not a cruel death to die. 
Around their names a laurel wreath, 
A wild cheer as the parting breath. 

On which their spirits mount the sky; 
Oh, had their hope been only won — 

On Irish soil their final fight. 
And had they seen, ere sinking down. 
Our Emerald torn from England's crown, 

Each dead face would have flashed with light! 

But vain are words to check the tide 

Of widowed grief and orphaned woe ; 
Again we see them by our side. 
As full of youth, and strength, and pride 
They first went forth to meet the foe! 
Their kindling eyes, their steps elate. 
] Their grief at parting hid in mirth ; 

Against our foes no spark of hate — 
No wish but to preser\-e the state 
That welcomes all the oppressed of earth. 

Not a new Ireland to invoke — 

To guard the flag was all they sought ; 
Not to make others feel the yoke 
Of Poland, fell the shot and stroke 

Of those who in the Legion fought ; 
Upon our great flag's azure field 

To hold unharmed each starr)' gem — 
This cause, on many a bloody field. 
Thinned out by death, they would not yield 

It was the world's last hope to them. 

O ye, the small surviving band, 

O Irish race, wherever spread. 
With wailing voice and wringing hand. 
And the wild kaoine of the old dear land, 

Think of her Legion's countless dead I 



Struck out of life by ball or blade. 
Or torn in fragments by the shell. 

With briefest prayer by brother made, 
, And rudely in their blankets laid. 

Now sleep the brave who fought so well. 

Their widows — tell not them of pride. 

No laurel checks the orphan's tear; 
They only feel the world is wide, 
.And dark and hard — nor help nor guide — 

No husband's arm, no father near; 
But at their woe our fields were won, 

.And pious pity for their loss 
In streams of generous aid should run. 
To help them say " Thy will be done." 

As bent in grief they kiss the cross. 

Then for the soldiers and their chief 

Let all combine a shaft to raise — 
The double type of pride and grief. 
With many a sculpture and relief 

To tell their tale to after days; 
And here will shine — our proudest boast 

While one of Irish blood survives — 
Sacred to that unfaltering host 
Of soldiers from a distant coast. 

Who for the Union gave their lives. 

" Welcomed they were with generous hand; 

And to that welcome nobly true. 
When war's red tocsin filled the land. 
With sinewy arm and swinging brand. 

Those exiles to the rescue flew; 
Their fealty to the land they gave. 

And for the Union, daring death. 
Foremost among the foremost brave. 
They welcomed victor)' and the grave 
I In the same sigh of parting breath." 

Thus be their modest history penned. 

But not with this our love must cease; 
Let prayers from pious hearts ascend, 
.And o'er their ashes let us blend 

All feuds and factions into f)eace ; 
Oh, men of Ireland ! here unite 

.Around the graves of those we love, 
.And from their homes of endless light. 
The Legion's dead will bless the sight. 

And rain down anthems from above. 

Here to this shrine by reverence led, 
Let love her sacred lessons teach ; 
Shoulder to shoulder rise the dead, 
From many a trench with battle red 
I .And thus I hear their ghostly speech : 



THE PRIEST OF PERTH. 



639 



" Oh for the old earth, and our sake. 
Renounce all feuds, engendering fear. 

And Ireland from her trance shall wake. 

Striving once more her chains to break. 
When all her sons are brothers here." 

I see our Meagher's plume of green 

Approving nod to hear the words. 
And Corcoran's wraith applauds the scene. 
And bold Mat. Murphy smiles, I ween — 

All three with hands on ghostly swords — 
Oh, for their sake, whose names of light 

Flash out like beacons from dark shores— 
Men of the old race ! in your might, 
All factions quelled, again unite — 

With you the Green Flag sinks or soars ! 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



DECORATION DAY. 
Where the iron gateway arches 

O'er the dwellings of the dead : 
In the meadows, where the larches 

Wave their foliage overhead ; 
Close beside the flowing rivers, 

In the valley's peaceful rest. 
Where the golden sunlight quivers 

On the water's heaving breast, 
Where the vernal blossoms cumber 

River bank and meadow sward, 
Rest our heroes in the slumber 

Of their glory and reward. 

Where the brazen cannon's thunder 

Pealed across the smoky plain 
Till the air seemed rent asunder 

As the echoes rang again : 
On the hillsides where the ridges 

Of the redoubts linger yet. 
By the rivers where the bridges 

Bristled with the bayonet. 
Lie the laurels and the roses 

On the mounded graves to tell 
Where each warrior reposes 

'Neath the spot whereon he fell. 

Who shall desecrate these grasses, 

Who antagonize this love. 
Who disturb the requiem masses 

Which the zephyrs sing above } 
May his right hand fail and wither. 

May his tongue envenomed rot. 
Who would bring his hatred hither 

Where love consecrates this spot ! 



Be their blood a brand forever 
On the demagogues who strive 

To recall their hates, or sever 
The affections that survive ! 

Bring them flowers! for tender actions 

Have more force than angry words ; 
Kindness cools the wrath of factions 

Love will dull the sharpest swords ■ 
Give the Blue the wreath of roses, 

Yield the laurel to the Gray. 
While our tenderness discloses 

That our hate has passed away. 
Leave them here ! their fame is common, 

Be their tokens rose or rue. 
Till the angel's trump shall summon 

From their slumbers Gray and Blue. 

WILLIA.M D. KELLY. 



THE PRIEST OF PERTH 
We who sat at his cheerful hearth 
Know the wisdom rare, of priceless worth, 
He bears away from the face of earth ; 
Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth !* 

Dead ! and the sun of life so high ! 
Dead ! with no cloud in all his sky ! 
Dead ! and it seemed but yesterday 
When happy and hopeful he sailed away. 
As Priest and Celt, to his double home. 
For Westport ba^^ and Eternal Rome ; 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

God rest the soul of the Priest of Perth ! 

Yet there was a sign in his gracious sky. 
Up where the Cross he lifted high 
Glow'd in the morn and evening light. 
Kissed by the reverent moon at night— 
Glow'd through the vista'd northern pines, — 
" That's Perth, where the Cross so brightly 
Many will say, as many have said, [shines," 
Bearing true tribute to the dead, — 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

Rest to the soul of the Priest of Perth : 

And there was the home he loved to make 

So dear, for friend and kinsman's sake ; 

Oh, many a day, and many a year 

Will come for his mourners far and near 

But never a friend more true or dear. 

Many a wreath of Canadian snow 

Will hide the gardens and gates we know. 



640 



MEMOKIAL POEMS. 



And many a spring will deck again 

His trees in all their leafy glory, 
But none shall ever bring back for men 

The smile, the song, the sinless story ; 
The holy zeal that still presided. 
Which none encountered and derided; 
That yielded not one fast or feast, 
One right or rubric of the priest; — 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth I 

A golden Priest, of the olden school, 
Fearless and prompt to lead and rule ; 
Freed of every taint of pride. 
But ready, aye ready to chide or guide ; 
Tenderly binding the bruised heart. 
Sparing no sin in its penal smart; 
His will was as the granite rock 
To the prowler menacing his flock ; 
But never lichen or wild flower grew 
On rocky ground more fair to view ; 
Laying the outlines deep and broad 
Of an infant church, he daily trod 
His path in the visible sight of God ; — 

Ashes to ashes ! earth to earth ! 

Peace to the soul of the Priest of Perth 1 

O Saints of God ; ye who await 
Your beloved by the beautiful gate ! 
Ye Saints who people his native shore — 
Beloved Saint John, whose name he bore — 
And ye, Apostles ! unto whom 
He pray'd, a pilgrim, by your tomb. — 
And thou I O Queen of Heaven and earth. 
Receive — receive — the Priest of Perth ! 

THOMAS U'ARCY M<-GEE, 



NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 
F'aint and sad was the moonbeam's smile, 

Sullen the moan of the dying wave; 
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle. 

As I stood by the side of Napoleon's grave. 

And is it here that the hero lies, [dread .' 

Whose name has shaken the earth with 

And is this all that the earth supplies — 
A stone his pillow — the turf his bed I 

Is such the moral of human life ? 

Are these the limits of glory's reign.' 
Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife. 

And a thousand battles been all in vain } 



Is nothing left of his victories now 
Hut legions broken — a sword in rust — 

.\ crown that cumbers a dotard's brow — 
A name and a requiem — dust to dust .' 

Of all the chieftains whose thrones he reared. 
Was there none that kindness or faith could 
bind .' 

Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared. 
Had none one spark of the Roman mind .' 

Did Prussia cast no repentant glance .' 
Did Austria shed no remorseful tear. 

When England's truth, and thine honor, 

France, [here? 

And thy friendship. Russia, were blasted 

No holy leagues, like the heathen heaven, 
Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock; 

And glorious Titan, the unforgiven, [rock. 
Was doomed to his vulture, and chains, and 

And who were the gods that decreed thy 
doom .' 

A German Caesar, — a Prussian sage — 
.\ dandy prince of a counting-room, — 

And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age. 

Men called thee despot, and called thee true ; 
But the laurel was earned that bound thy 
brow ; 
I Of all who wore it, alas! how few 
I Were freer from treason and guilt than thou ! 

; Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde !_ 
Where was the oath which thy soldiers 
swore ? 
Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword 
Was never so false to its trust before. 

Where was thy veteran's boast that day, 
•' The Old Guard dies, but it never yields.'" 

O ! for one heart like the brave Dessaix, 
One phalanx like those of thine early fields ! 

But no, no, no! — it was Freedom's charm 
Gave them the courage of more than men ; 

You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm. 
Though you were invincible only then. 

Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow ; 

One struggle, and France all her fault n- 
pairs, — 
But the wild Fayette, and the stern Carnot 

Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs; 

RICHAKU HENKV WILDE. 



MARQUETTE. 



641 



NAPOLEON'S TOMB. 
Hark ! o'er the waves distinctly swell 
Twelve slow vibrations of a bell ; 
And out upon the silent ear 
At once ring boldly sharp and clear, 
With shock more startling than if thunder 
Had split the slumbering earth asunder, 
The iron sounds of crow and bar; — 

Ye scarce may know from whence they come, 
Whether from Island or from Star, 

Both lie so hush'd and dumb ! 
On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep, 
Shaking long-buried Kings from sleep. 
Up, up ! ye sceptred jailers — ho ! 

Your granite heaped his head in vain ; 
The ver)' grave gives back your foe. 

Dead Caesar wakes again ! 

The Nations with a voice as dread 

As that which, once in Bethany, 
Burst to the regions of the dead 

And set the Loved-one free. 
Have cried, " Come forth ! " and lo ! again. 
To smite the hearts and eyes of men 
With the old awe he once instill'd 
By many an unforgotten field. 
Napoleon's look shall startle day ; — 

That look that, where its anger fell, 
Scorch'd empires from the earth away 

As with the blasts of hell ! 
Up, from the dust, ye sleepers, ho ! 

By the blue Danube's stately wave — 
From Berlin's towers — from Moscow's snow, 

And Windsor's gorgeous grave ! 

Now 'mid the torch's solemn glare. 
And bended knee and muttered prayer. 
Within that green sepulchral glen 
Uncover'd groups of warrior men 
Breathless perform the high behest 

Of winning back, in priceless trust. 
For the regenerated West, 

Your victim's mighty dust. 
Hark ! how they burst your cramps and rings — 
Ha, ha ! ye banded, bafHed kings ! 
Stout men ! delve on with axe and bar, 
Ye're watched from yonder restless star: 
Hew the tough masonry away — 

Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly ! 
And firm your sounding levers sway. 

And loud your clanking hammers ply ! 

'Tis morn — the marble floor is cleft. 
And slight and short the labor left. 
'Tis noon — they wind the windlass now 



To heave the granite from his brow : 
Back to each gazer's waiting heart 
The life-blood leaps with anxious start — 
Down Bertrand's cheek the tear-drop steals- 
Low in the dust Las Casas kneels ; 
(O ! tried and trusted — still, as long 

As the true heart's fidelity 
Shall form the theme of harp and song. 

High bards shall sing of ye !) 
One moment — and thy beams, O sun ! 
The bier of him shall look upon. 
Who, save the Heaven-expell'd alone. 
Dared envy thee thy blazing throne ; 
Who haply oft, with gaze intent. 

And sick from victorj''s vulgar war. 
Panted to sweep the firmament. 

And dash thee from thy car. 
And cursed the clay that still confined 
His narrow conquests to mankind, 

BARTHOLOMEW SIMMONS. 

From "The Disinta-mcnl of Napoleon." 



MARQUETTE, 
At old Laon, beside a mountain stream. 
In far, fair France, he dreamt his youthful 

dream : 
Slender his form, and pale his beauteous face. 
His high-souled honor spoke a noble race. 
Young genius sparkles in those starry eyes. 
And deep devotion in their dark depths lies; 
How fair is all, how sweet the world appears. 
And bright the promise of the coming years. 

Oh great, grand soul! e'en in life's festive 

hours 
To list the Master's voice 'mid pleasure's 

bowers ; 
To see His beauty in awakening day 
And view His mercy in the moon's sweet ray; 
To feel His power and vastness on the deep. 
And His dread wrath when fierce tornadoes 

sweep; 
Thy fresh young virgin heart He sought to gain. 
Early He knocked, nor did He knock in vain. 

But thine own France — the fair land of the 

vine — 
Whose ev'ry glory swells that heart of thine— 
Shall ne'er be witness to thy deeds afar 
Which dim the lustre of those feats of war 
In which her Christian knights bore Moslem 

down, [town. 

And rode triumphant through each crescent 



642 MEMOKIAL POEAIii. 

Oh, pale, pure priest ! from far beyond the 1 While the lone mariner o'er waters dark. 



wave. 
The pitying angels beckon thee to save ; 
For there, amid a smiling paradise 
Of flowers and fruits and streams and sunlit 

skies. 
The swarthy Indian broods in darkness lone. 
And demons rear their undisputed throne ; 
And while the virgin vales in beauty sleep 
The guardian spirits of the wild-woods weep. 



When the fierce tempest crowds his trembling 
I bark. 

The same invokes, as guardian of those lakes. 
Nor dreads the danger that the wild wind 
wakes. 

Tlicy dig him a grave in the wild, wet sand. 
On the banks of the lonely river. 
And lay him to rest. 
With a cross on his breast. 
Far, far away from his own sunny land ; 
While the night dews fall and the sad winds 
sigh. 



Sure they will bear thee safely oer the foam. 

And sooth thy heart mid starlight dreams of 
home : 

There the grand epic of thy life's young story \ A"<1 "«"« but the angels and two are nigl 

Shall woo the muse and crown thy name in 
glory. [Youth, 

Nor Spaniard sought the fabled Fount of 

Nor \finstrel Knight e'er sanghislady'struth. 

Nor hungry Miser, in his greed for gold, ' 

Nor dreamy Alchemist, in days of old. 

E'er sought the prize on which his soul was set 

With half thine eager heart, oh, brave Mar- 
quette 



'Mid wild Canadian woods and snowy wastes 



But his faithful braves will not let him sleep 
So far from his own loved mission ; 
And in decked canoe 
When soft winds woo. 
They bear him away 
'Mid blossoms of May 
To Point St. Ignace, while they pray and 

weep. 
But tho' centuries pass, yet the wild winds 
rave 



He taught him barb'rous tongues and savage Round the unlettered stone of Marquette's 



tastes ; 
In lone canoe along those stormy lakes 
He bears the cross, and their wild echo wakes 
With Christian song, which, oft more swift 

than speech. 
Can the rude children of the forest reach. 
His memory greets us wheresoe'er we go. 
'Mid Summer flowers or Winter's frozen snow ! 



PATRICK CRONIN. 
anniversary po/m. 



What recks he of the perils round his path 
From beast and flood and wood and savage 

wrath } 
What matters that his scanty food alone 
Is oft but moss plucked from the wild-wood 

stone.' 
Jesu is near, the Virgin guards his sleep. 
And sweet his slumbers o'er the billows deep ; 
He has his cross, his breviar)' and beads. 
These be his weapons — he no others needs. 



Oh, brave young Christian herald 
Comes thy '■'right story as a guiding star ; 
Neglectful centuries could not hide thy fame. 
Nor dim the lustre of thy glorious name — 
That name the Red Man knows, and his swart 

face 
Reveres the angel of his vanished race. 



OBSEQUIES OF DAVID THE PAINTER. 
The pass is barred ! " Fall back I" cries the 

guard ; " cross not the French frontier," 
As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the 

funeral drew near. 
For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no 

plume, no pall can hide. 
That yon hearse contains the sad remains of 

a banished regicide ! 
•■ But pity take, for his glor)''s sake," said his 

children to the guard ; 
•' Let his noble art plead on his part, — let a 

grave be his reward ! 
France knew his name in her hour of fame, 

nor the aid of hi.s pencil scorned ; 
from afar Let his passport be the memory of the 

triumphs he adorned !" 



That corpse can't pass! 'tis my duty, alas I" 
said the frontier sentinelle — 

Hut pity take for liis country's sake, and his 
clay do not repel 



From its kindred earth, from the land of his 

birth !" cried the mourners in their turn, 
'• Oh ! give to France the inheritance of her 

painter's funeral urn : 
His pencil traced on the Alpine waste of the 

pathless Mont Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse — 

let ^.grave be his reward ! 
For he loved this land — ay, his dying hand to 

paint her fame he'd lend her : 
Let his passport be the memory of his native 

country's splendor !" 

" You cannot pass," said the guard, " alas ! 

(for tears bedimmed his eyes). 
Though France may count to pass that mount 

a glorious enterprise " — 
" Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake !" 

cried the mourners once again : 
" Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of 

Spartan men ; 
Did not his art to them impart life's breath, 

that France might see 
What a patriot few in the gap could do at 

old Thermopylae? 
Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the 

youthful bosom fired : 
Let his passport be the memory of the valor 

he inspired !" 

"Ye cannot pass" — "Soldier, alas! a dismal 

boon we crave — 
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his 

friends may dig a grave? 
Oh ! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he 

gloried to portray 
With a crown and palm at Notre Dame on his 

coronation day ; 
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged 

pontiff rose, 
And a blessing shed on the conqueror's head, 

forgiving his own woes : — 
He drew that scene, nor dreamt, I ween, that 

yet a little while, 
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off 

in a lonely isle!" 

" I am charged, alas! not to let you pass," said 

the sorrowing sentinelle ; 
" His destiny must also be a foreign grave " — 

" 'Tis well ! — 
Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a 

place of rest. 
And to bear away his banished clay from the 

land he loved the best. 



NE. 643 

But let us hence ! — Sad recompense for the 

lustre that he cast. 
Blending the rays of modern days with the 

glories of the past ! 
Our sons will read with shame this deed, 

unless my mind doth err, 
And a future age make pilgrimage to the 

painter's sepulchre I" 

FRANCIS S. MAHONY. 
Front tk<: Ft'i:nch of Bemngcr. 



KANE. 
Died \6tli February, 1857. 
Aloft, upon an old basaltic crag. 
Which, scalped by keen winds that defend 

the Pole, 
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll 
Around the secret of the mystic zone, 
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag 

Flutters alone : 
And underneath, upon the lifeless front 
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced ! 
Fit type of him. who. famishing and gaunt. 

But with a rocky purpose in his soul, 
Breasted the gathering snows. 
Clung to the drifting fioes. 
By want beleaguered, and by winter chased. 
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen 
waste. 

Not many months ago we greeted him. 

Crowned with the icy honors of the North. 

Across the land his hard-won fame went forth. 

And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb 
by limb. 

His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim 

Burst from its decorous quiet as he came. 

Hot southern lips, with eloquence aflame, 

Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim, 

Proffered its horny hand. The large-lunged 
West 
From out its giant breast [main, 

Yelled its frank welcome. And from main to 
Jubilant to the sky. 
Thundered the mighty cry, 

HONOR TO KANE! 

In vain, in vain, beneath his feet we flung 
The reddening roses ! All in vain we poured 
The golden wine, and round the shining board 
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung 
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast ! 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



644 

Scarce ilie buds willed and the voices ceased 
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes. 
Bright as auroral fires in southern skies. 
Faded and faded : and the brave young heart 
That the relentless arctic winds had robbed 
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest. 
For the lost Captain, now within his breast 

More and more faintly throbbed. 
His was the victory ; but as his grasp 
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp. 

Death launched a whistling dart ; 
And ere the thunders of applause were done. 
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun ! 
Too late, too late, the splendid prize he won 
In the Olympian race of science and of art I 

Like to some shattered berg that, pale and 

lone, 
Drifts from the white north to a tropic zone. 

And in the burning day 

Wastes peak by peak away 

Till on some rosy even 
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he 
Tranquilly floated to a southern sea. 

And melted into heaven ! 
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life ! 
We will not weep for him who died so well ; 
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell 

The story of his strife ; 

Such homage suits him well; 
Better than funeral pomp, or passing bell I 

What tale of peril and self-sacrifice ! 
Prisoned amid the fastnesses of ice. 
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow ! 
Night lengthening into months; the ravenous 

floe 
Crunching the massive ships, as the white 

bear 
Crunches his prey; the insufficient share 

Of loathsome food ; 
The lethargy of famine; the despair 
Urging to labor ner\'elessly pursued ; 
Toil done with skinny arms and faces hued 
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind 
Glimmered the fading embers of a mind I 

That awful hour, when through the prostrate 

band 
Delirium stalked, laying his burning hand 
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew. 
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few 
At first, but deepening till they grew [throng 
lull) black thoughts of murder; such the 
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song 



Should be that hymns the noble part he 

played 
Sinking himself, yet ministering aic 
To all around him. By a mighty will 
Living defiant of the wants that kill, [fate; 
Because his death would seal his comrades" 
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill 

Those Polar waters, dark and desolate ; 

Equal to every trial, every fate 
He stands until the Spring, tardy with relief. 

Unlocks the icy gate, [more. 

And the pale prisoners tread the world once 
To the steepcliff of Greenland's pastoral shore 

Bearing their dying chief. 

Time was when he should win his spurs of 

gold 
From royal hands, who wooed the knightly 

state. 
The knell of old formalities is tolled, [crate. 
And the world's knights are now self-conse- 
No gfrander episode doth chivalry hold 
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne, 
Than that lone vigil of unceasing f>ain. 
Faithfully kept, thro' hunger and thro' cold. 
By the good Christian Knight, elisha kane! 

FITZ-JA.MES O'BRIEN. 



DEATH OF AN ARCTIC HERO. 
At last an orange band, 
Set in a dawn of ashen gray. 
To things that winter in that dreadful land 
Told like a prophet of the sun at hand ; 
And tlie light flickered, like an angel's sword, 
This way and that, athwart the dark fiord ; 
And strangely colored fires 
Played round magnificent cathedral spires. 

Gladly by w-inter of the glacier built 
With fretted shafts, by summer glory tipped, 
And darkness was unruffled and was ripped 

Like crape from heaven's jewelled hilt. 
O. those grand depths on depths that look 

like Fate. 
Awfully calm and uncompassionate ; [say. 
Those nights that arc but clasps, or rather 
Bridges of silver flung from day to day ; 
That vault which deepens up. and endeth 

never. 
That sea of starlit sky. 
Broadening and brightening to infinity. 
Where nothing trembles, suiters, weeps for- 



THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR. 



645 



But still the ships were fast in the ice-field, 
And while the midnight Arctic sun out- 
wheeled, 
Thicker and thiclcer did Death's shadows fall 
On the calm forehead of the Admiral. 

Oh, Admiral ! thou hadst a shrine 

Of silver, not from any earthly mine. 

Of silver ice divine — 
A sacrament, but not of bread and wine, [skies 
You had the Book, the stars, in whose broad 
Are truths, and silences, and mysteries — 
The love, which whoso loveth, never dies. 

Brave hearts ! he cannot stay : 
Only at home ye will be sure to say [found — 
How he hath wrought, and sought, and 

Found what ? 
The bourne whence traveller returneth not ? 
Ah, no ! 'tis only that his spirit high 
Hath gone upon a new discover)\ 
A marvellous passage on a sea unbounded. 

Blown by God's gentle breath ; 
But that the white sail of his soul hath rounded 

The promontory Death I 

How shall we bury him ? 
Where shall we leave the old man lying.' 
With music in the distance dying — dying, — 

Among the arches of the Abbey grand and 
dim, 

There if we might we would bury him ; 
And comrades of the sea should bear the pall ; 
And the great organ should let rise and fall 
The requiem of Mozart, the Dead March in 
Then silence all! [Saul — 

And yet far grandlier will we bury him. 
Strike the ship-bell slowly — slowly — slowly ! 

Sailors, trail the colors half-mast high ; 
Leave him in the face of God most holy, 

Underneath the vault of Arctic sky. 
Let the long, long darkness wrap him round. 
By the long sunlight be his forehead crowned. 
For cathedral panes ablaze with stories. 

For tapers in the nave and choir. 
Give him lights auroral, — give him glories. 

Mingled of the rose and of the fire. 
Let the wild winds, like chief mourners, walk. 
Let the stars burn o'er his catafalque. 
Hush ! for the breeze, and the white fogs 
swathing sweep, 

I cannot hear the simple service read. 

Was it " earth to earth," the captain said. 
Or "we commit his body to the deep. 

Till seas give uo their dead '^ " 

WILLIAM .ALEXANDER. 



THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR.* 
Here our murdered brother lies; 
Wake him not with women's cries: 
Mourn the way that manhood ought ; 
Sit in silent trance of thought. 

Write his merits on your mind ; 
Morals pure and manners kind ; 
In his head as on a hill, 
Virtue plac'd her citadel. 

God of Peace, and God of Love, 
Let it not thy vengeance move. 
Let it not thy lightnings draw ; — 
A nation guillotin'd by law! 

Hapless nation ; rent and torn. 
Thou wert early taught to mourn, 
Warfare of si.x hundred years! 
Epochs marked with blood and tears I 

Hunted thro' thy native grounds, 
Or flung reiuard X.O human hounds; 
Each one pull'd and tore his share, 
Heedless of thy deep despair. 

Hapless Nation — hapless Land, 
Heap of uncementing sand ! 
Crumbled by a foreign weight ; 
And by worse, domestic hate. 

God of mercy ! God of peace ! 
Make the mad confusion cease ; 
O'er the mental chaos move. 
Through it SPEAK the light of love. 

Monstrous and unhappy sight ! 
Brothers' blood will not unite : 
Holy oil and holy water. 
Mix, and fill the world with slaughter. 

Who is she with aspect wild .' 
The widow'd mother with her child, 
Child new stirring in the womb ! 
Husband waiting for the tomb ! 

.\ngel of this sacred place. 
Calm her soul and whisper peace, 
Cord, or axe, orguillotin, 
Make the sentence — not the sin. 

Here we watch our brother's sleep; 
Watch with us, but do not weep; 
Watch with us thro' dead of night, 
But e.xpect the morning light. 



646 



Mli.MORIAL POEMS. 



Conquer fortune— persevere ! 
Lo ! it breaks, the morning clear ! 
The cheerful cocK. awakes the skies, 
The day is come — arise I arise ! 

WILLIAM DRENNAN. 



THE MIDNIGHT MASS FOR SARSFIELD- 
Over the crest of the Keeper Mountains, 

Mellowly rose the har\'est moon, 
Lighting the face of the languid valley 

That lay as if sunk in a slumbrous swoon : 
Lightly rustled the wood's dark banners. 

Balmily breathed the gentle gale.— 
Adding its charm to the dreamy splendor 

Of an Autumn night in a Munstervale. 

But what are those strange, swift-gliding 
figures — 

Of earth or elfland, women or men — 
Hurrying out of the woodland shadow 

Hastening into the hollow glen ? 
They follow no new. uncertain pathway — 

Whither or wherefore do they pass ? [them. 
Ah ! cursed code that has ground them, grinds 

They're hurrying on to the Midnight Mass! 

There's a silent crypt in the glen's recesses. 

An Irish catacomb lone and drear. 
Where the angrj- howl of the Saxon bandog 

Never may break on the pray'r-filled air. 
The mass to-night on its rude rock altar 

Is to be said for a soldier's rest. 
Who carried a sword in the wars for Ireland, 

And died far, far from her loving breast. 

Two sentries stand by the secret portal 

Opening into the sacred cave : [spoken : 
As each form approaches the words are 

•• God and Saint Patrick bless the brave ! " 
The door swings back on its noiseless hinges. 

The pilgrim enters the lowly pile. 
Where the rough-hewn rock is the only altar 

And stalactites hang, 'twixt nave and aisle. 

But souls are there of a saintly grandeur. 

Spirits that never to mortal bowed. 
Women as fair as Abraham's Sarah, 

Men of whom Sparta might be proud ! 
In spite of the brand, the axe, the gibbet, 

The tyrant's hate and the tyrant's laws. 
They cling like death to those priceless 
jewels — [cause ! 

Their fathers' faith and their country's 



Oh, for a Rembrandt's magic pencil ! 

Oh I for a Homer's golden tongue. 
To paint that throng in the dim light risitiL 

To hear the words of the Gospel sung I 
Here the maid and the comely matron. 

There the chief and the stalwart kern ; 
These with reverent eyes uplifted. 

Those with lineaments pale and stern! 

And so they follow with voiceless fervor 

The celebrant on thro' the sacred rite, 
Till the acolyte's last response is spoken, 

And the priest stands mute in the all«u 
light. 
A moment over the dark veiled chalice 

In reverie deep he bows his head. 
And as turns he 'round to greet his people 

Solemn his voice and slow his tread: 

" Over our land a pall has fallen — 

Black on the island's breast it lies, 
Shutting out heaven's divine effulgence. 

Quenching the stars in hope's soft skies! 
The chivalrous chief, the soldier leader. 

On whose valorous arm our land did lean. 
Is lost to us and to ours forever— [green. 

The flagstaff's hewn from our banner of 

"O, but to think of that heart heroic. 

Filled with the tenderest thoughts of home. 
And that yearned to shed its red tide for 
Ireland ' 

Mouldering now 'neath the Flemish loam, 
O, God of our ancient race and nation 

List to a suffering people's cry. — 
Give to the soul of our lost Lord Lucan* 

Rest in Thy realms beyond the sky." 

A silence solemn, sepulchral, mystic. 

Over the throng-filled grotto spread : 
Anon the women in lines dark muffled [head. 

Streamed out with the good priest at their 
When up in the silent sombre chancel, 

A figure arose like a mountain pine. 
And thus: " If our land's lost Sarsfield's sabre. 

Brothers, she still has yours and mine ! 
No rust must sully their glorious brightness 

Till Ireland conquers her own again !" 
And back there came, like an Alpine tempest. 

One wild, one resolute, fierce Amen ! 

JOHN LOCKE, 

• A territorial title of General Patrick Sarsfield, who was 
killed while commanditlK the Irish Brigade in the ser>-ice of 
France at the battle of Landen, July 39th, 1693. 



LAMENT FOR KING IVOR. 



647 



LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL. 
Time — 1649. Scene — Ormond's Camp, County j 
Waterforti. \ 

"Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen | 

Roe O'Neill !" | 

•' Yes they slew with poison him they feared , 

to meet with steel." 
•■ May God wither up their hearts ! May their [ 

blood cease to flow ! ! 

May they walk in living death, who poisoned 

Owen Roe ! 

'■ Though it break my heart to hear, say again 

the bitter words." 
" From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched 

to measure swords ; [way, j 

But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his ; 
And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. 

Leonard's Day." 

"Wail, wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail, 

wail ye for the Dead ; 
Quench the heart, and hold the breath — with 

ashes strew the head. 
How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we 

deplore ! 
Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never see 

him more. 

" Sagest in the council was he, — kindest in 

the hall. 
Sure we never won a battle — 'twas Owen won 

them all. 
Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country 

had been free ; 
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves 

we'll ever be ! 

"O'FarrellandClanrickard, Preston and Red 

Hugh, 
Audley and MacMahon — ye are valiant, wise, 

and true ; 
But — what, what are ye all to our darling who 

is gone ? 
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's 

corner stone ! 

■• Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, 
weep for our pride \ 

Would that on the battle-field our gallant 
chief had died! 

Weep the Victor of Benburb — weep him, 
young man and old ; 

Weep, weep for him, ye women — your Beauti- 
ful lies cold ! 



" We thought you would not die— we were 
sure you would not go, 

And leave us in our utmost need to Crom- 
well's cruel blow — 

Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow 
shuts out the sky — [you die ? 

O! why did you leave us, Owen.' Why did 

"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! 

bright was your eye. 
O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did 

you die.' 
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with 

God on high ; 
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen ! 

— why did you die? ' 

THOMAS DAVIS. 



LAMENT FOR KING IVOR. 

Place : the southwest coast of Ireland. 
Time.- the middle cf the ninth centuiy. 
A utho7- : the hereditary bard of a Kerry clan. 
Cause of making : to lament his King slain in battle with 
Danish vikings. 

Thou golden Sunshine of the day of peace ! 

Thou livid Lightning of the night of war! 

Hearing the thunder of thy battle-car 
Who could endure to meet thee in the press! 

Who dared to see thine eyes aflame in fight. 
Thou Stormer through the whistling storm 

of darts? 
Pourer of panic into heroes' hearts ! [light ! 

Our Hope, our Strength, our Glory, our De- 

Thy soul is striding down the perilous road. 

And see, the ghosts of Heathen whom thy 
spear 

Laid low, arise and follow in their fear 
Him who is braver than their bravest god. 

Why is thy soul surrounded by no more 
Of thine adoring clansmen? "You had been 
Full worthy," wouldst thou answer, hadst 
thou seen 
The charge that drove the pirates from our 
shore. 

But thou wast lying prone upon the sand. 
Death-wounded, blind with blood, and gasp- 
ing : " Go, 
Two swords are somewhat ; join the rest; I 
know 
Another charge will beat them from the land." 



648 



MI:.\H>Kl.l: 



So when the slaughter of the Danes was done 
We found Ihce dead— a-state with sunken 

eyes 
At those red surges, and bewailed by cries 

Of sea-gulls sailing from the fallen sun. 

We kissed thee, one by one, lamenting sore : 

Men's tears have washed the blood-slain 

from thy brow : [thou : 

Thy spear and sword and our dear love hast 

We have thy name and fame for evermore. 

So sang the warriors to their clouded Star. 
King Ivor, as they heapt his cairn on high, 
A landmark to the sailor sailing by, 

A warning to the spoiler from afar. 

WHITLKV SroKKS. 



Long may the curse 

Cii his people pursue them; 
Scully, that sold him. 

And soldier that slew him! 
One glimpse of heaven's light 

May they see never I 
May the hearthstone of hell 

Be their best bed for ever! 

In the hole which the vile hands 

Of soldiers had made thee, 
Unhonor'd, unshrouded. 

And headless they laid thee; 
No sigh to regret thee. 

No eye to rain o'er thee, 
No dirge to lament thee. 

No friend to deplore thee! 



DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. 
The sun on Ivera 

No longer shines brightly. 
The voice of her music 

No longer is sprightly ; 
No more to her maidens 

The light lance is dear. 
Since the death of our darling 

O'SuUivan Beare 

Scully ! thou false one. 

You basely betrayed him, 
In his strong hour of need. 

When thv right hand should aid him. 
He fed thee— he clad thee — 

You had all could delight thee 
You left him — you sold him— 

May heaven requite thee I 

Scully ! may all kinds 

Of evil attend thee I 
On thy dark road of life 

May no kind one befriend thee ! 
May fevers long burn thee. 

And agues long freeze thee ! 
May the strong hand of God 

In his red anger seize thee ! 

Had he died calmly. 

1 would not deplore him ; 
Or if the wild strife 

Of the sea-war closed o'er him ; 
But with ropes round his white limbs 

Through ocean to trail him. 
Like a fish after slaughter — 

'Tis therefore I wail him. 



Dear head of my darling, 

How gory and pale 
These aged eyes see thee. 

High spiked on their gaol! 
That cheek in the summer sun 

Ne'er shall grow warm; 
Nor that eye e'er catch light 

By the flash of the storm. 

A curse, blessed ocean. 

Is on thy green water. 
From the haven of Cork, 

To Ivera of slaughter: 
Since thy billows were dyed 

With the red wounds of fear. 
Of Muiertach Oge, 

Our O'Sullivan Beare : 

JAMES J. CALL.': 
From thi Irish. 



IRELAND'S DEAD IN ROME. 

Tombs in Ihe Church of Monlorio, on the Jan- 

icttium. 

[Hfic jacent O'Nealivs, Baro dc Pvntrannon, MaRni 
HuKimis Filivsct O'Donncll, Comes De Tyrconnil, qvi con- 
tra hu^reticos in Hibernia muhos anno5ccrter\-nl.— M.D.C. 
Vlll.] 

All natural things in balance lie. 
.■\djustment fair of earth and sky. 
.\nd their belongings. Thunders bring 
The red life from the heart of spring ; 
Thence summer, and the golden wain 

That comes with harvest, when each field. 
Crimsoned with weeds, like fiery rain. 

Flames like a newly forged shield. 
I All things come true in some dim sense. 



THE DEATH OF ST. COLUMBA. 



649 



Held good by absolute Providence. 

Inquire not: Here you sleep at last- 
Sleeping, it may be face to face. 
Right glorious leaders of our race, 

Of faith profound, of purpose vast. 

Around, above this glittering dome, 
Soars the majestic bulk of Rome ; 
This marble pave, this double cell 
Enshrines you, and contents you well. 
Better it were the twain should lie 

On some wild bluff of Donegal, 
The sea below in mutiny. 

The terrible Heaven over all. 
God wills and willed it shall not be. 
Here is no rave of wind or sea. 
Peace, incense, and the vesper psalm ; 

The sob, the penitential groan ; 

The lurid light, the dripping stone — 
The earth's eternity of calm. 

Sleep on, stern souls, 'twere wrong to shake 

Your ashes, — bid the dead awake 

To bitter welcome. Ireland lies 

Under the heels of enemies. 

So has she lain since that cursed day 

That saw your good ship fly the Land , 
Since Ulster's proud and strong array 

Dwindled to fragments, band by band, 
And you two wept in leaving her, 
(Chased thro' the seas by Chichester), 
Still buoyed with hopes to find abroad 

Aid to prostrate our ancient foe. 

And to lay wall and rampart low. 
And hear the saints in Heaven applaud. 

It came not, and in regal Rome 
Died the O'Donnell, sick for home; 
Not all the pomp the city boasts 
Consoled him for his native coasts. 
Here Art's sublimed ; but Nature there 

His heart, his passions satisfied ; 
The forest depth, the delicate air. 

"Were with his inmost soul allied. 
So hoping, doubting went the days, 
And tired at heart of time's delays. 
He closed his eyes in Christ our Lord. 

No truer man had nobler birth, 

No braver soldier trod the earth, 
"With pitying or destroying sword ! 

And thou, O'Neill. Lord of Revolt, 
Battle's impetuous thunderbolt ; 
Cliff-flinger, at whose name of might 
The bronzed cheeks of the Pale turned white, 



Dost thou lie here? And Ireland bleeds 

Her virgin life through every pore ! 
Great chief in unexampled deeds, 

We need thy smiting arm once more. 
Rest, rest! the glory of thy life 
Shines like tradition on the strife 
Which Ireland wages hour by hour, 
Patient, yet daring for the best, 
And growing up, as worlds attest. 
To freedom, majesty and power. 

JOHN F. o'donnell. 



THE DEATH OF ST COLUMBA. 
The last faint glimmer of sunset gold 

Hath sunk in the western wave ; 
Over the isle the night-winds blow. 
Tenderly sighing, moaning low. 

Like mourners o'er a grave. 



'Tis only meet that his life should close 
Where he watched and toiled so well ; 
How is he keeping this last, sad night, 
That the taper burns so late, so bright 
In his sternly simple cell? 

A scribe sits there with parchment scroll — 

'■ Now haste thee, my son, and write ! 
Take thou no rest till the death-rest fall. 
And watch thou, too, for the Master's call. 
That Cometh so oft at night." 

The monk wrote on. with eager hand. 

No other sound was there ; 
For the grief in his soul might find no breath 
In the presence of work — in the presence of 
death. 

Till the bell should sound for prayer. 

" I would thou hadst closed the golden psalm 

With the close of this passing life ; [well — 

But these words are meet for my last fare- 

They will call the next brother like matin bell 

To pray for the holy strife." 

The words that looked from the speaking 
page. 
That had touched so deep a chord 
In the old man's heart, would thine eyes, too, 

see ? 
They were, "Come, ye children, hearken to me, 
I will teach you the fear of the Lord " 



650 



MKMOKIAL I'OEMS 



•Tis the midnight bell! I will enter in 

Where my children kneel, once more :" 
And there followed one, with torch a-light. 
To guide his way through the gusty night 
To the lowly entrance-door. 

Alone he passed that portal dark. 

For the storm had quenched the lights . 
And there, as he knelt on the ground to pray. 
His soul with the midnight soared away 

To its home on the holy heights. 

They found him there, the smile of God 
Gleamed calm on his saintly face; 

And when the deep hush of their pain was o'er. 

And they bare him out through the lowly door. 
A sweet anthem filled the place. 

They laid him low for his quiet sleep 
By the Church's western bound — 

And few were there that had loved him best ! 

For the storm beat wild ; and of all the rest 
No boat could cross the Sound. 

The days grew calm, and they bore him back 

To the land of his earliest love ; 
.^nd a coffin was laid in his own green Isle. 
For her balmy tears, and her proud, sweet 

For her saint in the rest above. [smile. 

ALESSIE BOND FAUSSKl T. 



THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC 
"Croni Cruach and his sub-gods twelve." 

Said Cormac. " are but carven treene : 
The axe that made them, haft or helve. 

Had worthier of our worship been. 

■■ But He who made the tree to grow. 

.\nd hid in earth the iron-stone. 
.\nd made the man, with mind to know 

The axe's use, is God alone." 

.Anon to priests of Crom was brought. 
Where, girded in their sen'ice dread, 

They ministered on red Moy Slaught, 
Word of the words King Cormac said. 

They loosed their curse against the king ; 

They cursed him in his flesh and bones; 
And daily in their mystic ring 

They turned the maledictive stones. 

Till, where at meat the monarch sate, 

Amid the revel and the wine. 
He choked upon the food he ate. 

At Sletty, southward of the Boyne. 



High vaunted then the priestly throng. 

And far and wide they noised abroad. 
With trump and loud liturgic song. 

The praise of their avenging god. 

But ere the voice was wholly spent 
That priest and prince should still obey. 

To awed attendants o'er him bent 

Great Cormac gathered breath to say — 

'• Spread not the beds of Brugh for me 
When restless death-bed's use is done ; 

But bury me in Rossnaree. 
And face me to the rising sun. 

" For all the kings who lie in Brugh 

Put trust in gods of wood and stone 
i And 'twas at Ross that first 1 knew 
I One Unseen, who is God alone. 

" His glory lightens from the East; 

His message soon shall reach our shore ; 
And idol-god and cursing priest 

Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more." 

Dead Cormac on his bier they laid. 

■• He reigned a king for forty years. 

And shame it were," his captains said, 

• He lay not with his royal peers. 

" His grandsire. Hundred-battle, sleeps 
Serene in Brugh ; and. all around. 

Dead kings in stone sepulchral-keeps 
Protect the sacred burial ground. 

'• What though a dying man should rave 
Of changes o'er the eastern sea 'i 

In Brugh of Boyne shall be his grave. 
And not in noteless Rossnaree." 

Then northward forth they bore the bier, 
And down from Sletty side they drew 

With horseman and with charioteer 
To c-oss the fords of Boyne to Brugh. 

There came a breath of finer air 
That touchd the Boyne with ruffling 
ings. 
I It stirr'd him in his sedgy lair 

And in his mossy moorland springs. 

And as the burial train came down 
With dirge and savage dolorous shows. 

Across their pathway, broad and brown 
The deep, full-hearted river rose ; 



THE DEATH OF KING LEURY. 



6=; I 



From bank to bank through all his fords, 
'Neath blackening squalls he swell'd and 
boil'd ; 

And thrice the wondering Gentile lords 
Essay 'd to cross, and thrice recoil 'd. 

Then forth stepp'd gray-hair 'd warriors four: 
They said, " Through angrier floods than 
these, 

Oi\ link'd shields once our king we bore 
From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece. 

"And long as loyal will holds good. 
And limbs respond with helpful thews 

Nor flood, nor fiend within the flood. 
Shall bar him of his burial dues. " 

With slanted necks they stoop'd to lift ; 

They heaved him up to neck and chin ; 
And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift, 

Lock'd arm and shoulder, bore him in. 

'Twas brave to see them leave the shore ; 

To mark the deep'ning surges rise, 
And fall subdued in foam before 

The tension of their striding thighs. 

'Twas brave, when now a spear-cast out, 
Breast-high the battling surges ran ; 

For weight was great, and limbs were stout, 
And loyal man put trust in man. 

But ere they reached the middle deep, 
Nor steadying weight of clay they bore, 

Nor strain of sinewy limbs could keep 
Their feet beneath the swerving four. 

And now they slide, and now they swim. 
And now, amid the blackening squall. 

Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim, 
They plunge around the floating pall. 

While, as a youth with practised spear. 

Through justling crowds bears off the ring, 

Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier 
And proudly bore away the king. 

At morning on the grassy marge 
Of Rossnaree, the corpse was found. 

And shepherds at their early charge 
Entombed it in the peaceful ground. 

A tranquil spot ! a hopeful sound 

Comes from the ever-youthful stream, 

And still on daisied mead and mound 
The dawn delays with tenderer beam. 



Round Cormac Spring renews her buds: 
In march perpetual by his side 

Down come the earth-fresh April floods. 
And up the sea-fresh salmon glide ; 

And Life and Time rejoicing run 
From age to age their wonted way ; 

But still he waits the risen sun. 
For still 'tis only dawning day. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE DEATH OF KING LEURY. 
In Clogher once King Leury reigned, 

Cruelle hee was and sterne ; 
From MuUagh-rath oft went hee forth 

To spoyle, to slaye, to burne. 

And nought his spyrite fierce could lame. 

Save ye mystick voice alone 
From Kerman Kelstack's bloudie shryne 

Where stoode ye Golden Stone. 

One morne hee hade assembled alle 

His galloglasses trewe. 
To hold a greate and merrie huntynge 

Ye woodes of ye Closach throughe. 

Theye alle hade gathered in ye bawne 

To wage ye sylvanne warre. 
When, lo ! a hoarie aged manne 

Stoode there theyre sporte to marre. 

In sackclothe coarse hee was attyred 

Erin's greate Saynte was hee, 
And from hys gj-rdle there hong doune 

Both crosse and rosarie. 

I Then up hee spake to that haughtic kynge, 
•' Repent for ye sinnes thou'st donnc ; 
Worshipeye trewe Almightie Godde, 
And Chryste, ye Virginn's sonne !" 

A wrathfule manne was ye kynge that daie 
When hee herde what ye olde manne sayd ; 

Hys eyes they flashed like ye levin-fyre, 
Hys hand on hys swerde hee layde. 

" But no," hee cryed, " 'twere shame that I 
Should shedde ye caytiffe's bloud ;" 

And hee laughed, and sayde, " We'll have a 
chase, " 
And thryce hee whystled k)ude. 



652 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



Then round hym thronged hys fierce wolf- 
Bran, Luath. Buscar. Ban ; [dogges. 

And louder hee laughed, and cheered ihem on 
That hoarie reverend nianne. 

But soon ye kynge hys aspect changed 
When ye Saynte sayde scornfuUie, 

'• That deth thou hast for niee prepared 
Thou surclie now shalt die." 

Then, wondrous, at ye Saynte 's comniande 

Ye dogges forgettc their lorde, 
And baye at hym that nurtured them 

And feddc them at hys boarde. 

And fiercelie now they rushe on hym. 

And grapple at hys throate — 
Tho' never hee hadde in baltell quayled. 

With feare hys herte is smote. 

And onward past ye gazing thronge 

Hee franticlie did tlie. 
And pale and ghastlie was hys cheeke 

And frenzied was hys eye. 

On, on hee dashed, o'er hille and dale. 

Ye baying dogges before ; 
And now Knockmanyes height is passed. 

And now he gaines Cormore. 

But still ye sleuth-hounds on hys tracke 

Come howling kcene bchinde, 
And still when hee slacked hys frantickspeedc. 

Their crj'e rose on ye winde. 

On, on hee stretched, hyslyppes were parched. 

And hee breathed heavilie, 
And on hys haggard forehedde stood 

Bigge droppes of agonie. 

Stoopinge. hys deer-hyde brouges he loosed. 

As hee strayncd agaynsle ye hille, 
" Esker-na-brouge " iliey call ye place. 

In memorie of it stille. 

Now. Leur)-. now thy strength exerte. 

And everie muscle plye. 
O couldst thou reach thy huniynge-lodge 

Of distant Donogh-an-Igh I 

Alas, thou ne'ere shalt reacho thy halle.— 

In vain ye feaste is spredde. 
To-night ye Seanachie shall mournc 

Hvs chiefe and master deadi-. 



Ye openynge packe gain grounde apace. 

And now, o'erspent with toyle. 
Ye ill-starred kynge they overtake 

In bloude-stained Tul-na-foil. 

But who shall telle hys frantick mun 

.■\nd crie of agonie. 
When Luath foremoste gripped hys throate 

.•Vnd broughte hym to hys knee } 

Deepe in hys quiv'rjng flankes they fixe ; 

Hys lyfe-bloude now flows faste ; 
Ye fearfulle chase at length is o'er. — 

Hee shrieking breathes hys laste. 

In Kill-na-heery now he sleeps — 

Hys is a low lie grave — 
May Heaven in mercie from such ende 

Eche errj'nge synner save I 

ANO.NV.MUUS. 



LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE 
AND TYRCONNELL 

[This is ao Elcify on ihe death of the Princes of Tyrone 
nd Tyrconneil, whu, having (led with others from Ireland in 
the year 1607, and afterwards dyinK at Rome, were interred un 
cler's Hill in one grave. "I he original poem is the pro- 
on of u'Donnells bard, Uwcn Koe Mac an Bhaird, or 
Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is ad- 
dressed to Nuala, O'Dunnell's sister, who was also one of 
fugitives.] 

O woman of the Piercing Wail, 

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay, 
With sigh and groan, 
Would God thou wert among the Gael ! 
Thou wouldst not then, from day to day. 
Weep thus alone. 
'Twere long before, around a grave 
In green Tirconnell, one could find 
This loneliness; 
Near where Beann-Hoirche's banners wave. 
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 
Companionless. 

Beside the wave, in Donegal, 
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 
Or Killilee, 
Or where the sunny waters fall. 
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, 
This could not be. 
On Derry's plains, in rich Drumclieff. 

Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned 
In olden years. 
No day could pass but woman's grief 
Would rain uihui the burial ground 
I- rcsli floods of tears ! 



LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL. 653 



Oh, no — from Shannon, Boyne and Suir. 
From high Dunluce's castle walls. 
From Lissadill, 
Would flock alike both rich and poor; 
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls 
To Tara's hill ; 
And some would come from Barrow-side, 
And many a maid would leave her home 

On Leitrim's plains. 
And by melodious Banna's tide. 

And by the Mourne and Erne, to come 
And swell thy strains I 

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down 
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint 
Was crucified ; 
From glen and hill, from plain and town, 
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint. 
Would echo wide. 
There would not soon be found, I ween, 
One foot of ground among those bands 
For museful thought, 
So many shriekers of the keen 

Would cry aloud, and clap their hands. 
All woe-distraught ! 

Two princes of the line of Conn 
Sleep in their cells of clay beside 
O'Donnell Roe ; 
Three royal youths, alas ! are gone. 
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 
For Erin's woe ! 
Ah ! could the men of Ireland read 
The names these noteless burial stones 
Display to view. 
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 
Their tears gush forth again, their groans 
Resound anew ! 

The youths whose relics moulder here 

Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and 
Of Aileach's lands ; [Lord 

Thy noble brothers, justly dear, 
"Thy nephew, long to be deplored 
By Ulster's bands. 
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time 
Could domicile Decay or house 
Decrepitude ! 
They passed from Earthere Manhood's prime. 
Ere years had power to dim their brows 
Or chill their blood. 

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, 
Or who can blame thy flowing tears. 
That knows their source.' 



O'Donnell, Dunnasavas chief. 
Cut ofl amid his vernal years, 
Lies here a corse 
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns 
In deep despair — 
For valor, truth, and comely bloom. 
For all that greatens and adorns, 
A peerless pair. 

Oh, had these twain, and he, the third. 
The Lord of Mourne. O'Niall's son, 
Their mate in death — 
A prince in look, in deed and word — 
Had these three heroes yielded on 
The field their breath, 
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, 
There would not be a town or clan 
From shore to sea. 
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, 
Or chant aloud the exulting rann 
Of jubilee ! 

When high the shout of battle rose. 

On fields where freedom's torch still burned 
Through Erin's gloom. 
If one, if barely one of those 
Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned 
The hero's doom ! 
If at Athboy, where hosts of brave 
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 
The shock of spears. 
Young Hugh O'Niell had found a grave 
Long must the north have wept his death 
With heart-wrung tears ! 

If on the day of Ballachmyre 
The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, 
A warrior's fate. 
In vain would such as thou desire 
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 
From Niall the Great! 
No marvel this — for all the Dead, 
Heaped on the field, pile over pile. 
At Mullach-brack, 
Were scarce an eric for his head. 

If Death had stayed his footsteps while 
On victory's track ! 

If on the Day of Hostages 

The fruit had from the parent bough 

Been rudely torn 

In sight of Munster's bands — Mac-Nee's — 

Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow 

Could ill have borne. 



654 



MEMORIAL POEMS. 



If on the day of Ballock-boy 


No Northern Chief would soon arise 


Some arm had laid, by foul surprise. 


So sage to guide, so strong to shield, 


The chieftain low. 


So swift to save. 


Even our victorious shouts of joy 


Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hul 


Would soon give place to rueful cries 


Had met the death he oft had dealt 


And groans of woe ! 


Among the foe ; 




But. had our Roderick fallen loo, 


If on the day the Saxon host 


.Ml Erin must, alas ! have fell 


Were forced to fly— a day so great 


The deadly blow! 


For Ashanee— 




The chief had been untimely lost. 


What do I say ? Ah, woe is me! 


Our conquering troops would moderate 


Already we bewail in vain 


Their mirthful glee. 


The fatal fall ! 


There would not lack on Lifford's day. 


.^nd Erin, once the Great and Free. 


From Gal way, from the glens of Boyle, 


Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, 


From Limerick's towers, 


And iron thrall ! 


A marshalled file, a long array. 


Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry 


Of mourners to bedew the soil 


Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 


With tears in showers ! 


Thy heart aside. 




For Adam's race is born to die. 


If on the day a sterner fate 


And sternly the sepulchral urn 


Compelled his flight from Athenrec, 


Mocks human pride ! 


His blood had flowed. 




What numbers all disconsolate 


Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne. 


Would come unasked, and share with thee 


Nor place thy trust in arm of clay. 


Affliction's load! 


But on thy knees 


If Derr)''s crimson field had seen 


Uplift thy soul to God alone. 


His life-blood offered up. though 'twere 


For all things go their destined way 


On Victory's shrine, 


As He decrees. 


A thousand cries would swell the keen. 


Embrace the faithful Crucifix. 


A thousand voices of despair 


And seek the path of pain and prayer 


Would echo thine! 


Thy Saviour trod ; 




Nor let thy spirit intermix 


O. had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 


With earthly hope and worldly care 


That bloody night on Fergus' banks 


Its groans to God ! 


But slain our chief. 




When rose his camp in wild alarm- 


And Thou, Oh mighty Lord ! whose ways 


How would the triumph of his ranks 


Are far above our feeble minds 


Be dashed with grief ! 


To understand. 


How would the troops of Murback mourn 


Sustain us in these doleful days. 


If on the Curlew Mountains' day. 


And render light the chain that binds 


Which England rued. 


Our fallen land ! 


Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, 


Look down upon our drearj- state. 


By shedding there, amid the fray. 


And through the ages that may still 


Their prince's blood ! 


Roll sadly on. 




Watch thou o'er hapless Erin s fate. 


Red would have been our warriors' eyes 


And shield at least from darker ill 


Had Roderick found on Sligo's field 


The blood of Conn ! 


A gory grave, 


JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



PART XIII. 

MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



Religion, she that stands subhme 

Upon the rocl< that crowns our globe, 

Her feet on all the spoils of time, 
With light eternal on her robe ; 

She, daughter of the orb she guides, 
On Truth's broad sun may root a gaze 

That deepens, onward as she rides, 
And shrinks not from the fontal blaze : 

But they, her daughter arts, must hide 
Within the cleft, content to see 

Dim skirts of glory waving wide, 
And steps of parting Deity. 

'Tis theirs to watch the vision break 
In types of nature's frown or smile, 

The legend rise from out the lake. 
The relic consecrate the isle. 



'Tis theirs to adumbrate and suggest ; 

To point tow'rd founts of buried lore ; 
Leaving, in reverence, unexpressed 

W'liat Man must know not, yet adore. 

For where her court true Wisdom keeps, 
'Mid loftier handmaids, one their stands 

Dark as the midnight's starry deeps, 

.\ slave, gem-crowned, from Nubia's strands. 

O thou whose light is in thy heart, 

Love-taught submission ! without thee 

Science may soar awhile ; but Art 
Drifts barren o'er a shoreless sea. 

AUBRKY T. DE VERE. 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 


SONG OF TRUST. 


O living God! 


Alone am I on the mountain : 


Alas for him who evil works ! 


O royal Sun. prosper my path. 


That which he thinks not of comes to him. 


And then I shall have nothing to fear. 


That which he hopes vanishes out of his 


Were I guarded by six thousand, 


hand! 


Though they might defend my skin. 




Yet when the hour of death is fi.xed. 


There is no Sn-od that can tell our fate. 


Were I guarded by six thousand. 


Nor bird upon the branch, 


In no fortress could I be safe. 


Nor trunk of gnarled oak ; 




Better is he in whom we trust, 


Even in a church the wicked are slain, 
Even inan isle amidst a lake; 


The King who has made us all. 
Who will not leave me to-night without 
refuge. 


But God's elect are safe 


Even in the front of battle. 




No man can kill me before my day, 
Even had we closed in combat; 


I adore not the voice of birds, 


Nor chance, nor the love of a son or a wife — 


And no man can save my life 
When the hour of death has come. 


My Druid is Christ, the Son of God, 
The Son of Mary, the Great Abbot, 




The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. 


My life ! 


My lands are with the King of Kings, 


My Order at Kells and at Moone. 


As God pleases let it be: 




Naught can be taken from it. 


ST. COLUMBKILLE. 


Naught can be added to it ; 




The lot which God has given 




Ere a man dies must be "lived out. 


ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARA. 


He who seeks more, were he a prince, 


[This is a free but strong translation of the Hymn com- 


Shall not a mite obtain. 


posed by St. Patrick on Easter Saturday, A. D. 433, on his 




way froin Slane to the royal palace of Laoghaire, at Tara, 




I'he original Latin is in Dr. Petrie's very learned work, " The 


A guard ! 


History and Antiquities of Tara Hill."] 


A guard may guide him on his way, 


At Tara, to-day, in this awful hour 


But can they, can they guard 


I call on the Holy Trinity ! 


Against the touch of death ? 


Glory to him who reigneth in power. 


Forget thy poverty awhile ; 


The God of the Elements. Father, and Son, 


Let us think of the world's hospitality, 


And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 


The Son of Mary will prosper thee, 


The ever-existing Divinity! 


And every guest will have his share. 






At Tara. to-day. I call on the Lord. 


Many a time what is spent 


On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, 


Returns to the bounteous hand, 


Who came to redeem from Death and Sin 


And that which is kept back 


Our fallen race ; 


Not the less has passed away. 


And I put and I place 



6s8 



MOKAL A\D KEUGIOUS POEMS. 



The virtue that lieth and liveth in 

His Incarnation lowly. 

His Baptism pure and holy. 
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction. 
His dolorous Death, his Crucifixion, 
His burial sacred, and sad. and lone. 

His Resurrection to life again. 
His glorious Ascension to Heavens high 
And. lastly, his future dread [Throne ; 

And terrible coming to judge all men — 
Both the Living and the Dead. 

At Tara. to-day. 1 put and I place 

The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love. 

And the virtue and grace 

That are in the obedience. 
And unshaken allegiance 
Of all the archangels and angels above 
And in the hope of the Resurrection 
To everlasting reward and election, 
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old. 
And in the truths the Prophets foretold. 
And in the AfKJStles' manifold preachings. 
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings. 
And in the purity ever dwelling 

Within the immaculate Virgin's breast. 
And in the actions bright and excelling 

Of all trood men, the just and the blest. — 

At Tara, to-day. in this fateful hour. 

I place all Heaven, with its power; 

And the sun. vOith its brightness ; 

And the snow, with its wliiteness; 

And the fire, with all the strength it hath ; 

And the lightning, with its rapid wrath ; 

And the winds, with their swiftness along 

And the sea, with its deepness ; [their path ; 
I And the rocks, with their steepness ; 
i And the earth, with its starkness, — 
! All these I place. 

I With God Almighty's help and grace. 

Between myself and the Power of Darkness. 

At Tara, to-day. 
I May God be my stay! 

May the strength of God now nerve me ! 
' May the power of God preserve me I 
May God the Almighty be near me ! 

May God the Almighty espy me ! 
May God the Almighty hear me ! 

May God give me eloquent speech ! 
May the arm of God protect me I 
May the wisdom of God direct me ! 
May God give me power to teach and to 
preach I 



May the shield of God defend me I 
May the host of (iod attend me. 

And ward me. 

And guard me. 
Against the wiles of demons and devils. 
.\gainst the temptations of vices and evils. 
Against the bad passions and wrathful will 
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart. 
Against every man who designs me ill. 
Whether leagued with others or plotting af>art! 

In this hour of hours, 

I place all those powers 
Between myself and every foe. 
Who threatens my body and soul 
With danger or dole. 
To protect me against the evils that flow 
From lying soothsayers' iucantations. 
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations. 
From Heresy's hateful innovations. 
From Idolatry's rites and invocations. 

Be those my defenders. 
My guards against every ban— 
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women ; 
In fine, against every knowledge that renders 

The light Heaven sends us dim in 

The spirit and soul of Man ! 

May Christ, I pray. 

Protect me to-day 

Against poison and fire. 

Against drowning and wounding : 

That so, in His grace abounding, 

I may earn the Preacher's hire! 

Christ, as a light, 

Illumine and guide me ! 
Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me! 
Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 

Christ be beside me 

On left hand and right ! 
Christ be before me. behind me, about me! 
Christ this day be within and without me I 

Christ, the lowly and meek, 

Christ, the All-Powcrful, be 
In the heart of each to whom I speak. 
In the mouth of each who speaks to me ! 
In all who draw near me. 
Or see me or hear me ! 

At Tara to-day. in this awful hour. 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power. 
The God of the Elements, Father and Son, 



LORICA S. PATRICII. 



6.sq 



And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 
Salvation dwells with the Lord, 
With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. 
From generation to generation 
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation I 

JAMES CLAREXCE MANGAN. 



LORICA S. PATRICIL* 
I bind to myself to-day. 
The strong power of an invocation of the 

Trinity, 
The faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
The Creator of the elements. 

I bind to myself to-day. 

The power of the Incarnation of Christ, with 

that of his Baptism, [Burial, 

The power of the Crucifi.xion, with that of his 
The power of the Resurrection, with the 

Ascension, [Judgment. 

The power of the coming to the Sentence of 

I bind to myself to-day, 

The power of the love of Seraphim, 

In the obedience of Angels, 

In the hope of Resurrection unto reward, 

In the prayers of the noble Fathers, 

In the predictions of the Prophets, 

In the preaching of Apostles, 

In the faith of Confessors, 

In the purity of Holy Virgins, 

In the acts of Righteous Men. 

I bind to myself to-day. 
The power of Heaven, 
The light of the Sun, 
The whiteness of Snow, 
The force of Fire, 
The Hashing of Lightning, 
The velocity of Wind. 
The depth of the Sea, 
The stability of the Earth, 
The hardness of Rocks. 

I bind to myself to-day. 
The Power of God to guide me, 
The Might of God to uphold me. 
The Wisdom of God to teach me, 



* This rendering of the "Lorica of St. Patrick,'" by tl 
learned Dr. Todd, is considered more literal than the precedii 
one by Mangan, although it lacks the rhythmical sweep ai 
harmony of the latter 's splendid composition. 



The Eye of God to watcli over me, 
\ The Ear of God to hear me, 
The Word of God to give me speech, 
The Hand of God to protect me, 
The Way of God to prevent me, 
The Shield of God to shelter me, 
The Host of God to defend me 
Against the snares of demons. 
-Against the temptations of vices. 
Against the lusts of nature. 
Against every man who meditates injury to me 
Whether far or near. 
With few or with many. 

I have set around me all these powers. 
Against every hostile savage power, 
Directed against my body and my soul, 
Against the incantations of false prophets. 
Against the black laws of heathenism, 
Against the false laws of heresy, 
.^gainst the deceits of idolatry, 
Against the spells of women, and smiths, and 

Druids, 
Against all knowledge which blinds the soul 

of man. 

Christ protect me to-day. 
Against poison, against burning. 
Against drowning, against wounding. 
That I may receive abundant reward. 

Christ with me, Christ before me, 
Christ behind me, Christ within me, 
Christ beneath me, Christ above me, 
Christ at my right, Christ at my left, 
Christ in the fort, Christ in the chariot-seat, 
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks 

of me, 
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks 

to me, 
Christ in every eye that sees me, 
Christ in every ear that hears me, 

I bind to myself to-day 

The strong power of an invocation of the 

Trinity, 
The faith of the Trinity in Unity, 
The Creator of the elements. 

Domini est salus, 
Domi7ii est salus, 
Christ i est salus, 
Salus tua Doininesit sempernobiscum. 

JAMES HENTHORN TODD. 



MORAL AND REUGIOUS POEMS. 



DE NATIVITATE DOMINI. 
From the far rising of llic sun 
To where his utmost course is run. 
Sing we the Christ, of Virgin born. 
With kingly praise His name adorn. 

Though from Eternity His sway. 
Our flesh He made His mean array; 
Redeeming, thus, from endless death, 
The race that owed to Him its breath. 

The spotless Virgin's favored womb 
Of Grace Divine becomes the home; 
And wonders, passing human thought. 
Unknown and secret, there arc wrought. 

The mother's thankful arms enfold 
The Babe whom Gabriel had foretold ; 
Whom, though unborn, with prophet's eye. I 
The Baptist John could yet descry. 

In mangcr-shed, amidst the kine. 
All lowly lies the Babe Divine ; 
Milk from a mother's breast is given 
To Him who feeds the birds of heaven. 

The heavenly choir their anthem raise — 
.■\ngels unite their Lord to praise ; 
While to the shepherds of the field 
The God Incarnate is revealed. 

Thou, hostile Herod, whence those fears.' 
Is it — that Christ on earth appears .' 
As though He grasped at earthly things. 
Who rules o'er all, the King of Kings! 

The Eastern Magi, from afar, 

Eager pursue the guiding star; 

Led by its beam, true light they seek. 

And own their God with offerings meek. 

The matron crowd beholds, aghast, 
To earth its infant offspring cast; 
Thus, through the tyrant's rage, doth rise 
To Christ a spotless sacrifice. 

Where flows the river's cleansing flood 
The Lamb of God all meekly stood, 
By His obedience to atone 
For our transgressions — not His own. 

His wondrous acts for Christ have won 
His name— the Eternal Father's Son ; 
Before His glance disease hath fle<l. 
To life come forth th' awakened dead. 



The water owns a power Divine. 
And, conscious, blushes into wine ; 
Its verj' nature changed, displays 
The power Divine that it obeys. 

Lo I the centurion comes to crave 
Recovery for his dying slave ; 
Such faith can pitying answer claim. 
And quench e'en fever's scorching flame. 

See Peter walk the swelling wave. 
His Lord's right hand outstretched to sa\' 
The path which nature's law denies. 
To trusting faith still open lies. 

Four days within the noisome grave 
Lay Lazarus. — He comes to save. 
Rent by His word are death's strong chain- 
As life and light its prey regains. 

Deep crimson stains, a noxious flood. 
Pollute the garment dyed with blood, 
A pleading suppliant draws nigh. 
And straight the flowing stream is drj-. 

A sufferer, palsied in each limb, 
Pours forth his earnest prayer to Him; 
No pause ensues, no long delay — 
Instant he bears his couch away. 

Now hath the traitor basely sold 
His Master, for the bargained gold ; 
The kiss of peace he dares impart. 
While treason lurks within his heart. 

Vainly the Just, the Holy pleads, 
His back beneath the dread scourge bleeds ; 
Nailed to the Cross, on either hand. 
The vilest of the robber band. 

The Sabbath dawns, and to the tomb 
With unguents rare, fond women come ; 
To whom the angel voice is sped, 
'• Seek not the living 'midst the dead ! " 

Now raise we all the joyous strain. 
With sweet, triumphant, fond refrain . 
The Christ hath conquered ! Death and Hell 
Redemption's mighty victory swell! 

Quenched is the dragon's fiery zeal. 
Crushed is the Lion 'neath His heel ; 
To Heaven ascending. Thou hast trod 
The path of glory. Son of God. 

.SKlifl.lUS.* 



A/-.4.YS EIGHT ELEMENTS. 



66 1 



IN TE CHRISTE. 
Thou who all men dost relieve, 
Christ in Thee I do believe. 
Come unto my aid, O Lord, 
While I labor for Thy word. 

Hasten to my help, I pray. 

Bear my burthen every day 

Of all mankind the maker Thou, 

Before Thy throne, our Judge, we bow. 

O Lord of lords and King of kings ! 
To Thee all nature homage brings ; 
The angels all alone in state. 
In the celestial city wait; 

O God of gods, eternal Light, 
O Lord most high, most sweet, most bright 
O God of patience, past all thought ; 
O God, Thou teacher of the taught ; 

O God, who hast made all that was, 
Of past and present Thou the cause ; 
O Father, for Thy Son's dear sake. 
Prepare the way that I shall take, 
And let Thy Holy Spirit guide 
My soul through all my wandering wide ! 

Christ, lover of the virgin choir, 
Christ, man's Redeemer from hell-fire, 
Christ, fount of wisdom, pure and clear. 
Christ, in whose word we hope and fear, 

Christ, breastplate in the hour of fight, 
Christ, who hast made the world and light, 
Christ, of the dead the living life, 
Christ of the living, strength in strife, 

Christ, crowner of each conquering soul. 
Who count'st it in the martyrs' roll, 
Christ, Saviour of the world so wide, 
Christ on the Cross at Passion-tide, 

Christ into depths of hell descends, 
Christ into heaven above ascends! 
Be glory to the Father given. 
Exalted in the highest heaven . 

All honor to the Only Son. 
With God the Father ever One. 
And to the Spirit Holiest, blest. 
Be equal power and praise addrest ; 
So be it until time is past. 
And while Eternity shall last. 

MARY F. CUSACK. 
Translation from St. Columba. 



MAN'S EIGHT ELEMENTS. 
Thus sang the sages of the Gael 

A thousand years ago well-nigh : 
" Hearken how the Lord on high [wail. 

Wrought man. to breathe and laugh and 
To hunt and war, to plough and sail. 

To love and teach, to pray and die !" 

Then said the sages of the Gael : 

" Of parcels eight was Adam built. 

The first was earth, the second sea ; 

The third and fourth were sun and cloud. 

The fifth was wind, the sixth was stone. 

The seventh was the Holy Ghost, 

The last was light which lighteth God." 

Then sang the sages of the Gael : 

" Man's body first was built of earth 

To lodge a living soul from birth. 

And earthward home again to go 

When Time and Death have spoken so. 

Then of the sea his blood was dight 

To bound in love and flow in fight. 

Next, of the sun, to see the skies. 

His face was framed with shining eyes. 

From hurrying hosts of cloud was wrought 

His roaming, rapid, changeful thought. 

Then of the wind was made his breath 

To come and go from birth to death, 

And then of earth-sustaining stone 

Was built his flesh-upholding bone. 

The Holy Ghost, like soaring flame, 

The substance of his soul became. 

Of Light which lighteth God was made 

Man's conscience, so that unafraid 

His soul through haunts of night and sin 

May pass and keep all clean within. 

" Now, if the earthiness redound. 
He lags through life a slothful hound ; 
But, if it be the sea that sways, 
In wild unrest he wastes his days; 
When'er the sun is sovran, there 
The heart is light, the face is fair. 
If clouds prevail, he lives in dreams, 
A deedless life of gloom and gleams. 
And when the wind has won command 
His word is harder than his hand. 
If stone bear rule, he masters men. 
And ruthless is their ransom then. 
The Holy Ghost, if He prevail, 
Man lives, exempt from lasting bale, 
And gazing with the eyes of God, 
Of all he sees at home, abroad. 



662 



MORAL AND REUGIOL^ rut.M.s. 



Discerns the inmost heart and then 
Reveals it to his fellow-men. 
And they are truer, gentler, more 
Heroic than they were before. 
But he on whom the Light Divine 
Is lavished bears the sacred sign, 
And men draw nigh in field or mart 
To hear the wisdom of his heart. 
For he is calm and clear of face. 
And unperplexcd he runs his race, 
Becaube his mind is always bent 
On Right, regardless of event. 

Of each of those eight things decreed. 
To make and mold the human breed 
Let more or less in man and man 
Be set as God has framed his plan. 
But still there is a ninth in store 
(God grant it now and evermore !) 
Our Freedom, wanting which, we read. 

The bulk of earth, the strength of stone; 
The bounding life o' the sea, the speed 

Of clouds, the splendor of the sun. 
The never-flagging flight of wind. 

The fer\'or of the Holy Ghost, 

The Light before the angels' host. 
Though all be in our frame combined. 
Grow tainted, yea, of no avail." 
So sang the sages of the Gael. 

WHIILEV STOKES. 
From the Early Irish. 



THE CHRIST. 
He is out as of old in the city, 

He is walking abroad in the street; 
He tendeth the poor in His pity. 

The leper that crawls to your feet. 
The halt, and the maim, and the maddened ; 

He feedeth the hungry with bread ; 
He cheereth the heart that is saddened, 

The dying, the loved of the dead ; 
He restoreth the child to its mother; 

He giveth the wayfarer rest- 
It is He, it is Christ, and none other. 

Yea, Christ by the love in His breast. 

He craveth for virtue and beauty : 

He clcaveth to good from His youth; 
To witness of truth is a duty. 

Yea, a triumph to die for the truth ; 
He toileth from dawn-time till even 

That light may be given to men. 
That earth be uplifted to heaven. 

And sin driven down to his den ; 



He calleth the meanest his brother. 
He draggeth the tyrant in dole — 

It is He, It is Christ, and none other. 
Yea, Christ by the might of His soul. 

For holiest freedom He yearneth, 

Made blest by the law that is good ; 
For justice, clear-eyed, that disccrneth. 

Not blindfold in shedding of blood. — 
Firm-handed to hold, and fair-sighted 

To watch as the balances sway ; 
And for Him is the black heaven lighted 

With streaks of perpetual day : 
.And for Him is the world-life a prison. 

By death to be cloven ap>art — 
It is He, it is Christ re-arisen. 

Yea, Christ by the hope in His heart. 

His face to the night He uplifteth. 

He searcheth the sUrs and the sun. 
For the secrets they hold : and He sifteth 

The sands where the gold rivers run.— 
The rivers of knowledge, of wonder. 

That roll to the infinite deeps; 
Hid treasure He draweth from under 

The caves of the hill where it sleeps, 
.And the waifs of old time that are lying 

Where the earth of dead centuries lies — 
It is He, it is Christ the undying. 

Yea, Christ by the thirst in His eyes. 

He trampleth the seas in His pleasure ; 

He soweth the desert with flowers ; 
He dareth to try and to measure 

His power with invisible powers; 
He burneth the idols with fire ; 

From the courts of the temples of God 
He scourgeth the seller and buyer. 

He driveth them forth with a rod ; 
And His sword He hath sheathed, in His 
craving 

For love in the turbulent lands- 
It is He. it is Christ the all-saving. 

Yea. Christ by the strength of His hands. 

From the cloud-folded ultimate regions, 
1 East and west over measureless seas, 
I Come thronging the myriad legions 

Of the good, of the wise, at His knees 
I Bowing down, and from hands heaxA'-ladcn 

For gifts pouring pearl and fine gold ; 
Yea, the youth high of heart, and the maiden 
Pure-eyed, and the rulers of old. 



THE MORNING'S HINGES. 



663 



All the just and the great. God-appointed, 
Come thronging with reverent pace — 

It is He, it is Christ the Anointed, 
Yea, Christ by Gods light in His face. 

Ere the world was rolled forth into spaces 

Of light, into regions of day. 
Ere the waters ran over dry places. 

And the grasses sprang green from the clay. 
His rest was of old with the Highest, 

He abode with the Infinite King, 
He was King from the first, and the nighest 

To God, and we praise Him, and sing. 
Lifting hands to the throne of His splendor. 

Sing aloud in our joy, " It is Thou ! 
It is Thou, O Christ, our defender. 

Our King by the crowns on Thy brow ! 

GEORGE F. ARMSTRONG. 
From " lestts Honiiiitiin Salvaloi:'^ 



A VESPER HYMN. 
The evening bells of Sabbath fill 

The dusky silence of the night. 
And through our gathering gloom distil 

Sweet sparkles of immortal light ; 

Such hours of peace as these requite 
The labors of the wear^- week ; 

When thus, with souls refreshed and bright. 
Forgiveness of our sins we seek. 

Oh ! help us, Jesus, to conform 

Our spirits, thoughts and lives to thine ! 
Beyond this earthly strife and storm. 

Oh, make Thy star of Love to shine ! 

When we are sinking in the brine 
Of doubt and care — oh come, that we, 

As Peter did, may safe resign 
Our sinking helplessness to thee! 

Thy Godhood — whence all glory flows — 

Thou didst not scruple to abase, 
To rescue from undying woes 

The sons of a rebellious race ! 

Who can, unmoved, unweeping, trace 
Thy meek obedience to His will. 

Whose sole appointed means of grace 
Thou didst, even to the cross, fulfill ! 

Our wayward footsteps wander wide. 

Pursuing joy's delusive rays ; 
And in our hours of health and pride, 

Too oft from Thee our spirit strays ; 



But soon descend the darker days. 
When youth and strength their lustre hide. 

And, journeying through a pathless maze, 
We turn to our neglected guide ! 

Lead back, oh Lord ! thy wandering sheep — 

Oh, guide us gently to thy fold ! 
Instruct us all Thy laws to keep. 

And unto Thine our lives to mould ! 

For we are weak, and faith grows cold — 
Nor ever sleep the Tempter's powers ; 

Thou art our only stay and hold — 
Through Thee alone can heaven be ours! 

A darker shade, a denser gloom 
Descends on all the folded flowers. 

While, silent as the voiceless tomb. 
Above them roll the midnight hours : 
To-morrow's dawn, and their perfume 

Again will fill their glowing bowers — 
Lord, after death so bid us bloom, 

Where no frost chills, no tempest lowers! 

CHARLES G. HALPINE. 



THE MORNING'S HINGES. 
Where the Morning's Hinges turn. 
Where the fires of sunset burn, 
Where the Pole its burden weighty 
Whirls around the starry hall ; 
Beings, wheresoe'er ye are. 
Ether, vapor, comet, star. 
There art Thou, Lord God Almighty, 
Thou that mad'st and keep'st them all. 



Where, on earth, battalioned foes 

In the deadly combat close ; 

Where the plagues have made their stations, 

Dropped from Heaven's distempered air; 

Where, within the human breast. 

Rising hints of thought suggest 

Sin's insane hallucinations. 

Dread One, Thou art also there. 

O most Mighty, O most High, 
Past Thought's compass, what am I 
That should dare Thy comprehending 
In this narrow, shallow brain? 
Yea, but Thou hast given a Soul 
Well capacious of the whole. 
And a Conscience ever tending 
Right-ward, surely not in vain. 



664 



MORAL A.\D RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



Yea, I'd hinder, if I could. 
Wrath and pain and spilling blood ; 
I would tell the cannon loaded 
'• Fire not '. " and the sabre stay 
Mid-cut: but the matter brute 
Owns its own law absolute ; 
And the grains will be exploded. 
And the driven iron slay. 

Deaf the nitre, deaf the steel: 
And. if I the Man appeal. 
Answer Soldier and Commander, 
•• We. blind engines, even as these. 
Do but execute His plan, 
Working since the world began. 
Towards some consummation grander 
Than your little mind can seize." 

What, does all. then, end in this. 
That amid a world amiss. 
Man must ever be but parcel- 
Imperfection? and the soul 
Ever thus in poise between 
Things contrarient, rest, a mean 
Averaged of the universal 
Good and ill that makes the whole ? 

No. a something cries within ; 
No ; 1 am not of your kin. 
Broods of evil 1 all the forces 
Of my nature anwer No I 
Though the world be overspread 
With the riddle still unread 
Of your being, of your sources. 
This with sense supreme I know : 

That behoves me, and I can. 
Work within the inner man 
Such a weeding, such a cleansing 
Of this moss-grown home-plot here, 
As shall make its herbage meet 
For the soles of angels' feet, 
And its blooms for aye dispensing 
Light of Heaven's own atmosphere. 

" Yea, what thou hast last advanced. 
Creature, verily thou canst." 
(Hark, the Master!) "Up. Bestir thee; 
And. that thou may'st find the way. 
Things inscrutable laid by. 
Be content to know that I. 
Hoping, longing, waiting for thee. 
Stand beside thee ever)' day.' 



Lord, and is it Thou, indeed. 
Takest pity on my need. 
Who nor symbol show, nor token 
Vouching aught of right in me.' 
■■ I. dear soul." the Master said. 
"Come to some through broken bread. 
Come to some through message sjwken ; 
Come in pure, free grace to thee." 

S.\MUEL KKRGU.SON. 



STABAT MATER DOLOROSA. 
Stood the mournful Mother weeping. 
By the Cross her vigil keeping. 

While her Jesus hung thereon ; 
Through her heart, in sorrow moaning. 
With Him grieving, for Him groaning. — 

Thro' that heart the sword hath gone. 

Oh ! how sad and sore distressed 
Was she — the for-ever blessed 

Mother of the Undetiled ! 
She who wept, and mourned and trembled. 
When she saw such pains assembled 

Round about the Holy Child. 

Who that sees Christ's Mother bending 
'Neath His load of sorrows, rending 

Her sad soul in woe so deep; 
Who that sees that pious Mother 
With Him weeping, could do other 

Than, himself afflicted, weep? 

For the sins of each offender. 
Sinless Soul, and Body tender. 

Sees she "neath the cruel rod : 
Sees her own sweet Son. her only. 
Dying, desolate, and lonely. 

Pouring out His Soul to God. 

Jesu ! Fount of Love I Thee loving. 
And my soul Thy sorrow moving. 

Make me watch and weep with Thee : 
As my God and Christ Thee knowing. 
Let my loving heart be glowing 

With a Holy Sympathy. 

Holy Father! let affliction 
For Thy dear Son's crucifixion 

Pierce my heart ; and grant this prayer. 
That while He for me is wounded. 
With mdignities surrounded, 

I His cup of grief may share. 



SURSVM COR DA. 



66 = 



Make me truly weep, and never 
From the Crucified me sever, 

Long as I on earth remain ; 
By the Cross of Jesus keeping 
With His Mother watch of weeping. 

Sharing with her pain for pain. 

God of Saints ! Thou King most holy ! 
Comforter of spirits lowly ! 

Fill me with my Saviour's grief ; 
That His death devoutly bearing, 
And His bitter passion sharing, 

I may bring Him some relief. 

Make me with His stripes be stricken. 
With the Cross my spirit quicken. 

For the love of Christ. I pray. 
That with love inflamed, attended, 
I by love may be defended 

In the awful Judgment Day. 

By the Cross for ever guarded. 

And, through Christ's dear dying, warded 

By the Grace that never dies ; 
When my mortal body, dying. 
In the quiet grave is lying. 
Take my soul to Paradise ; 
To adore 
Thee, my God I for evermore. 

Amen. 

J. S. B. MOXSELL. 



SURSUM CORDA. 
Cease, cease thy sighs, O weary heart! 

Cease, cease those sad'ning sighs, — 
What though these lone autumnal eves 
Bring mournful winds, and faded leaves. 
And kindly nature silent grieves. 

O'er summer blooms and dyes : 
The fresh young flowers again shall blow. 
And soft winds whisper sweet and low 
To murmuring waters, as they flow. 

Reflecting azure skies. 

Forget thy wrongs, much injured heart. 

Forget full many a wrong — 
Thine is the story often told. 
Of broken tnjst, of friends grown cold. 
And eyes long rayless 'neath the mould. 

That sparkled at thy song ; 
But warmer friends may yet be thine. 
Fresh hopes may glow, new stars may shine. 
Thou yet mayst quaff that unfound wine 

Thy soul hast craved so long. 



Dream, dream no more deluded heart; 

Awake, and dream no more ! — 
All silent now thy youthful lute ; 
But wither'd flowers, loved voices mute. 
Are all that's left thee, as the fruit 

Of houis forever o'er; 
But Death will come, or soon, or late. 
Then brighter visions may await 
Thine entrance through his darksome gate. 

Beyond life's mortal shore. 

Poor restless heart ! were this but so. 

Ah ! could I only know — 
Then winds might wail, and leaflets fall, 
Friends may deceive and vows recall. 
And youthful fancies vanish all, — 

I 'd grieve not should they go : 
For then, dear Lord I this weary breast. 
Would be at home, among thy blest, 
And find at last long sighed-for rest. 

To know no more of woe. 

P.ATRICK CRONIN'. 



SURSUM CORDA. 

Weary hearts I wearj- hearts ! by the cares of. 
life oppressed, 

Ye are wand'ring in the shadows, ye are sigh- 
ing for a rest ; 

There is darkness in the heavens, and the 
earth is bleak below. 

And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow 
turn to woe. 
Wear)' hearts, God is rest ! 

Lonely hearts 1 lonely hearts I this is but a 

land of grief ; 
Ye are pining for repose, ye are longing for 

relief ; 
What the earth has never given, kneel and 

ask of God above. 
And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you 

lean upon His love. 
Lonely hearts. God is Love ! 

Restless hearts ! restless hearts I ye are toiling 

night and day; 
And the flowers of life, all withered, leave 

but thorns along your way ; 
Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toil- 

ings all shall cease. 
And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad 

prayer for peace. 
Restless hearts. God is Peace ! 



666 



MOA'.U. AXD KEUG/OCS POKMS. 



Breaking hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are des- 
olate and lone, 

And low voices from the past o'er your pres- 
ent ruins moan! 

In the sweetest of your pleasures there was 
bitterest alloy, 

And a starless night hath followed on the 
sunset of your joy. 
Broken hearts, God is Joy ! 

Homeless hearts! homeless hearts! through 
the drear)', dreary years, 

Ye are lonely, lonely wandrers and your way 
is wet with tears ; 

In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye 
may roam, 

Ye look away from earth-land, and ye mur- 
mur •• Where is home ? " 
Homeless hearts, God is Home. 

ABR.\M J. KV.^N. 



OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 
Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
The cry went up from a sea ; — 
The waves were wild with an awful wrath. 
Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path; 
The clouds hung low : — 
Lost I Lost ! Lost ! 
Rose wild from the hearts of the tempest- 



Lost! Lost! Lost! 
The cry floated over the waves. 
Far over the pitiless waves ; 
It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds; 
The billows below them were weaving white 
shrouds. 
Out of the foam of the surge. 
And the wind voices chanted a dirge : 
Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. 

Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! 
Not the sign of a hope was nigh. 
In the sea, the air, or the sky; 
And the lifted faces were wan and white; 
There was nothing without them but storm 
and night. 
And nothing within but fear; 
But far to a Father's ear. 
Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. 



Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Out of the depths of the sea. 
Out of the night and the sea ; 
.\nd the waves and the winds of the storm 

were hushed. 
And the sky with the gleams of the stars were 
flushed :— 
Saved ! Saved ! Saved ! 
And a calm and a joyous cry 
Floated up through the starr)- sky. 
In the dark, in the storm — "Our Father" is 
nigh. 

ABRAM J. RYAN. 



A DIRGE. 



" Earth to earth, and dust to dust! " 
Here the evil and the just. 
Here the youthful and the old. 
Here the fearful and the bold ; 
Here the matron and the maid 
In one silent bed are laid : 
Here the warrior and the king. 
Side by side, lie withering : 
Glorj', but a broken bust : 
'• Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 

Age on age shall roll along 
O'er this pale and mighty throng; 
Those that wept them, those that weep. 
All shall with the sleepers sleep ; 
Prince and peasant, lord and slave. 
Moving onward, wave or. wave. 
Till they reach the sullen shore. 
Where their murmurings are o'er. 
Here the spade, and sceptre, rust : 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 

But, a day is coming fast. 
Earth, thy mightiest and thy last 
All shall see the Judgment-Sign, 
On the clouds the Cross shall shine ; 
Angel-myriads on the wing; 
Earth upgazing on its King; 
Heaven revealed to mortal sight. 
Earth enshrined in living light; 
Kingdom of the ransomed Just! 
•' Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 

Then shall dawn immortal day; 
Death and Sin no more have sway; 
Then shall in the Desert rise 
Fruits of more than Paradise ; 
Earth by angel-feet be trod. 



AT DAYBREAK. 



667 



One great garden of her God : 
Earth no more a vale of tears, 
Satan chained a thousand years. 
Now in hope of Him wc trust — 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust ! " 

' GEORGE CRULV. 



SONG OF THE MYSTIC, 
I walk down the Valley of Silence — 

Down the dim, voiceless valley alone ! 
And I hear not the fall of a footstep 

Around me, save God's and my own ; 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 

As hovers where angels have flown ! 

Long ago was I weary of voices 
Whose music my heart could not win ; 

Long ago I was weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din ; 

Long ago was I weary of places 

Where I met but the human and — sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly ; 

1 craved what the world never gave ; 
And I said : "In the world each ideal 

That shines like a staron life's wave 
Is wrecked on the shores of the real, 

And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

And still did I pine for the perfect. 

And still found the false with the true ; 

I sought 'mid the human for heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its blue ; 

And I wept when the clouds of the mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the human ; 

And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men ; 
Till I knelt long ago at an altar 

And heard a voice call me: since then 
I have walked down the Valley of Silence 

That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the valley ? 

'Tis my trysting-place with the Divine. 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And above me a voice said, " Be Mine," 
And there rose from the depths of my spirit 

An echo — " My heart shall be Thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the valley .' 

I weep, and I dream, and I pray. 
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 



That fall on the roses in May ; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from censers, 
Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing. 

And the music floats down the dim valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing. 

That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
A message of peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach ; 

And I have heard songs in the silence 
That never shall float into speech ; 

And I have had dreams in the valley 
Too lofty for language to reach. 

And I have seen thoughts in the valley — 
Ah me ! how my spirit was stirred ; — 

And they wear holy veils on their faces 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard ; 

They pass through the valley like virgins 
Too pure for the touch of a word. 

Do you ask me the place of the valley. 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by care .!* 

It lieth afar between mountains. 
And God and his angels are there ; 

And one is the dark mount of sorrow. 
And one the bright mountain of prayer ! 

ARR.A.M J. RYAN. 



AT DAYBREAK. 
■■ Return ! return ! the night is bleak and lone; 

Return, return! 

No star in heaven doth burn : 
One single flickering taper dares the gloom, 
A ghost-like dying o'er a tomb. 

Come back ! come back ! 

My soul with storm is black : 
Thou art the flame that feeds my waning lamp ; 
My brow with deadly fogs is damp ; 
My heart's core grows to stone ; 
Dumb darkness only listens to my moan. 

" Return ! return ! my torch is well-nigh 
quenched ; 

Return ! return ! 

All things for Thee I spurn ! 
All love is cold beside Thy wondrous love. 
Oh ! gentler than the brooding dove ! 

Softer than balm. 

Fairer than rose or palm ! 



668 



MOKAL .L\l> KEUuJOrs POF.AfS. 



Sweeter than wine and honeycomb and myrrh I 
Alas ! for Thee I held no lure ; 
From the weak grasp that clenched 
Thy kingly hands the purple robes are 
wrenched. 

Return! return I without the desert lies; 

The lone wind sobs 

Where earth no longer throbs 
With noisy anguish; but, in stupor bound, 
Rests, pain-numbed, till the morn comes round; 

All hideous things 

That the weird night-tide brings. 
The vampire and the warlock and the ghoul 
Steal up from fen and ditch and pool, 
And wailing spirits rise. 
Storming in vain the lost, imper\'ious skies. 

" Return ! return ! Ah, foolish lips, be hushed I 

He will not hear ; 

On Him no mortal fear 
Shall ever lay a chill, profaning hand. 
To the dark threshold chained I stand ; 

My sick torch gleams 

One moment as in dreams 
Then dies, and in the distance falls the last 
Faint footstep of the Love that passed. 
While yet with new birth flushed, 
Out of my joyless life and left it crushed. 

" Return ! return ! Not so ; but would He call. 

But whisper back, 

' Come ! tho' the night be black ; 
Come ! tho' the spectre and the were-wolf wait ! 
Come ! yearning heart, ere yet too late,' 

With what glad haste 

Through endless swamp and waste. 
Though with tear-blinded eyes my soul should 

seek 
Him I have loved with love too weak 
To hold Him here in thrall. [fall. 

Ye strong as Death, that knows no change or 

" I will arise ! I will no longer crj' 

' Return ! return !' 

My droughty heart-strings burn ; [vain 
Like some caged bird that beats its wings in 
Against the bars and sinks, self-slam, 

1 struggle here. 

Nor see, so blind my fear. 
The open door by which His bright feet fled. 
Shall 1 not follow where He led t 
Shall 1 in darkness lie. 
Content with idle weeping till I die?" 



I sought Him — ah ! how long I never knew— 

O'er rugged steeps. 

Thro' dim and dreadful deeps ; 
Mid frozen Winter gales, that mocked and 

howled ; 
'Mid noisome things, that crawled and 
prowled ; 

But when the night 

Down-dropped in headlong flight. 
Died in the white-hot, blazing arms of day. 
Around me blushed the face of May, 
And there, 'mid bloom and dew, 
I found Him where the valley lilies grew. 

F.\NNV I'AKNELL. 



IN TROUBLE AND IN GRIEF. 
In trouble and in grief. O God, 

Thy smile hath cheered my way; 
And joy hath budded from each thorn 

That round my footsteps lay. 

The hours of piain have yielded good. 
Which prosperous days refused ; 

As herbs, though scentless when entire- 
Perfume the air when bruised. 

The oak strikes deeper, as its boughs 
By furious blasts are driven 

So life's vicissitudes the more 

Have fixed my heart in heaven. 

.'\ll-gracious Lord I whate'er my lot 

At other times may be. 
I'll welcome still the heaviest grief 

That brings me near to Thee, 

RICHARD T. POPE. 



AGNUS DEI. 
Agnus Dei ! when the heart is weary 

With its load of sin : 
When all without is black and dreary, 

And hope is faint within. 
Faith looks up to Thee to bear 
All that load of sin and care ; 
Thou canst give the soul repose 
From its guilt and from its woes. 

Agnus Dei ! when that hour is near me, 

Terrible to all, 
By Thy love for sinners hear me 

When to Thee I call ; 



PKO VIDEXCE. 



669 



Through the darkness of that night 
Be my comfort and my light. 
From the victory of the grave 
Thou canst rescue, Thou canst save. 

Agnus Dei! when my trembling spirit 

In that ireful day 
Waits the judgment, let Thy merit 

Plead for me, I pray. 
On Thy sacrifice most holy 
Rest I my redemption solely. 
Thy precious blood my great salvation — 
Thy death my life — Thy Cross my exaltation. 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 



HYMN OF A HERMIT, 
Eternal Mind! Creation's Light and Lord! 
Thou trainest man to love Thy perfect will. 
By love to know Thy truth's obscurest word 
And so his years with hallowed life to fill ; } 
To own in all things round Thy law's accord. 
Which bids all hope be strong to vanquish ill ; 
Illumined thus by Thy diffusive ray, [day. 
The darkened world and soul are bright with 

In storm, and flood, and all decays of time. 
In hunger, plagues, and man-devouring war ; 
In all the boundless tracts of inward crime, — 
In selfish hates, and lusts that deepliest mar. 
In lazy dreams that clog each task sublime. 
In voiceless doubts of truth's unsetting star ; 
In all — Thy spirit will not cease to brood 
With vital strength, unfolding all to good. 

The headlong cataract and tempest's roar. 
The rage of seas, and earthquake's hoarse dis- 
may. 
The crush of empire, sapped by tears and gore, 
And shrieks of hearts their own corruption's 

prey; 
All sounds of death enforce Thy righteous 

lore. 
In smoothest flow Thy being's truth obey. 
And, heard in ears from passion's witchery 

free. 
One endless music make — a hymn to Thee ! 

But most, O God ! the inward eyes of thought 
Discern Thy laws in all that works within ; 
The conscious will, by hard experience taught, 
Divines Thy mercy shown by hate of sin ; 
And hearts whose peace by shame and grief 
was bought, 



Thy blessings praise, that first in wo begin ; 
For still on earthly pain's tormented ground 
Thy love's immortal flowers and fruits abound. 

Fair sight it is, and medicinal for man. 
To see Thy guidance lead the human breast ; 
In life's unopened germs behold Thy plan. 
Till 'mid the ripened soul it stand confest ; 
From impulse too minute for us to scan, 
Awakening sense with love and purpose blest ; 
And through confusion, error, trial, grief, 
Maturing reason, conscience, calm belief. 

This to have known, my soul, be thankful 

This clear ideal form of endless good, [thou ! 

Which casts around the adoring learner's brow 

The ray that marks man's holiest brotherhood ; 

Thus e'en from guilt's deep curse and slavish 
vow. 

And dreams whereby the light was long with- 
stood. 

Thee, Lord! whose mind is rule supreme to 
all, 

Unveiled we see, and hail thy wisdom's call. 

JOHN STERLING. 



PROVIDENCE. 
When late on life's departed years 

The scenes and seasons past — 
Their hopes and joys — their cares and fears, 

A lingering glance I cast ; 
And mark how oft hopes fondly nursed 

Have dealt affliction's blow — 
How oft from sorrow's cloud hath burst 

A pure and heavenly glow ! 

How oft a moment changed the scene, 

When keenest grew distress. 
How disappointment oft hath been 

The path to joyfulness ; 
Methinks I see Heaven's hand impart 

The expedient good to all — 
In time depress the o'er-worldly heart 

And raise up hearts that fall. 

I gazed on Time's long page ; the same 

All guiding spirit still 
Through all o'er-ruled with changeless aim— 

The turns of good and ill ; 
One hand, with unseen touch, combined 

The parts of mercy's plan. 
Links of the eternal chain designed 

For benefit to man. 

JAMES WILLS. 



670 

ASPIRATIONS FOR DEATH. 
O soul, held prisoner out of reach 
Of God's great glor>- in this gloom 
Of life, as in a living tomb ; 

God, whose mercy I beseech. 
When will my spirit rend the chain 
Of this dark prison-house of pain. 

Where weeping, pining, faint I lie, 
And die. because I cannot die. 

How vain this only life I know ! 

This bitter cup from poisoned springs. 

These soiled and broken spirit-wings. 
Stained with my sins and dark with woe ; 
These fetters bound upon my feet. 
That fain would run their Lord to greet, 

And from my soul goes up the cr)-, 

I die because I cannot die. 

Here all is weak and poor and frail — 
Even when my life with Thine is blest 
In Thy most Holy sacrament, 

1 long for death to lift the veil ; 

And if the death-psalm, low and faint. 
Is chanted for some dying saint 

My prayer goes upward with a sigh, — 

1 die, because I cannot die. 

Death brings alone the soul's release 

From all this wear)', worldly strife ; 

For life is death, and death is life, 
And through the grave we pass to peace ; 
O mournful exile of our years. 
This life begun and closed in tears! 

In death I hope, to death I fly. 

And die. because I cannot die. 

My life is slain with sorrow's sword. 

And still I know it is my sin 

That leaves me this low world within ; 
Yet, dead lips cannot praise Thee, Lord— 
Oh ! to breathe forth my soul's desire. 
My burning love, with lips of fire! 

Until that moment draweth nigh, 

I die, because I cannot die. 

To stand within the Golden Gate. 
Bathed in the effluent light and love 
Wherein the sphered systems move ; 

To see the circling angels wait 

Around the great white Throne of Him, 

The Lord of all the Seraphim, 

blessed life beyond the sky ! — 

1 die, because I cannot die. 



MORAL ASD REUGIOUS POEMS. 



My life. O God, 1 give to Thee : 
My life— 'tis all I have to give. 
And, losing it, begin to live 

The life of immortality. 

Are we not bound here unto death— 

His bond-slaves, as the Spirit saith ? 

give me freedom, life on high I — 

1 die. because 1 cannot die. 

Life shrouds us with its gloomy pall ; 
Yet still through blinding mists I see 
Heaven's holy light stream down on me. 

God. my God, on Thee I call. 
That soon before Thy face divine. 
For ever near Thee, wholly Thine, 

My soul may utter forth the cry — 

1 live, and never more shall die ! 

LAUV WILD I 
From the Spanish of Sttiita Teresa. 



\ LIFE'S LAST HOUR. 

' Shall I live till I am old. 

Till my heart is dull and cold.' 
I Shall I with progressive wear, 
I All life's ills reluctant bear ; 

See no tender eye watch o'er me, 
' All I loved in death before me.' 

Shall I die with years in prime, 
j Unfulfilled the Psalmist's time? 

Shall I leave this sunshine soon, 
In the midst of manhood's noon— 
Friendship, feasting, music o'er, 

I All I cherished seen no more.' 
Shall I feel a pang— a chill— 

I Brain on fire— a rapid rill 
From cloven heart- a stifled breath- 
Tell me, ye wise, will this be death .' 
Tell me, what I long to know. 
Presage of the fatal blow? 

Alas! ye cannot tell the hour. 

The way, the work of death's dark power ; 

Then, let me bow beneath the sway 

Of Him whom earth and Heaven obey. 

Ask Him. my soul, to seek and save, 
: And thus, unfearing. meet the grave. 
' Jesu. Lord ! be present Thou 

When Death's cold dews surround my brow; 

Let promised rod and staff be there. 
I And faith and hope, and love and prayer ; 

Visit my soul with glad surprise. 
I And glad with heaven my longing eyes. 

THU.MAS DREW. 



EVENING HYMN. 



671 



THE ANGEL. 
I saw an angel in the night, 
And my soul spake and stopped her flight, — 

Spirit sheen ! O heavenly Thing ! 
What air is fanned by your bright wing? 
What lovely zone beheld your birth 

Of shining sun, or star, or earth ? 

Where goest thou— to what radiant sphere ? 

Or why with mortals linger here ? 

ANGEL. 

In the light of the primal Morn, 

When the warfare of sin began. 
In Eden's bowers I was born 

To dwell with the soul of man ; 
A spark of the splendor of God, 

I entered the darksome den 
Of the doubting soul, and I grew and grew 
Fairer and brighter the ages through. 
Till alight from my light filled the eyes of men. 
And their hearts grew calm, and they saw the 
rod 
Of Justice, of Doom, 
O'er their tribes and their nations wave abroad 
With the blossoms of Mercy abloom ! 

1 showed them God's mar\'els here. 

And the myriads called me Faith ; 
I slew the dragon of Fear, 

And I bridged the bourne of Death ; 
I opened the soul's dull eyes, 

And showed her the things beyond ; - 
I guided her feet o'er the narrow way 
That leads to the land of eternal day. 
O'er the desert of Doubt, o'er the lake of 

Despond, 
O'er the mountains of woe, through the curses 
and sighs 
And the pangs of Despair. 
Till she saw in the fulness of Joy but the skies 
Of her God-promised home shining there! 

I walked on the Deluge wide. 

I guided the wandering Ark. 
I sat by the Saviour's side 

When the days were heavy and dark. 
I bide in the peasant's cot, 

As in temples and halls of kings ; 
I hear the last breath that the Martyr draws 
On the cross and the wheel for his sacred 

cause ; 
I strengthen the soul 'gainst the thousand 



Of the world and the flesh, till the earth 
seems not, 

And her yearning eyes 
Look far away from this darksome spot. 

Where the Islands of heaven arise ! 

A golden glory round her shone 

That dazed mine eyes, and she was gone ! — 

I said, O troubled soul of mine, 

Have faith in God, and Heaven is thine ! 

ROBERT DVVVER JOYCE. 



EVENING HYMN. 
The sunset wanes: now gather again from 
task and play. 
The day-long busy children around the 
mother's knee ; 
And we again. Blest Mother, draw round thy 
shrine to pray. 
In words that first were cadenced by angel 
voice to thee, — 

Ave Maria ! 



Now twilight pale is fading, and softly o'er 
the sea 
The stars, in clustering glory, steal forth 
with trembling blaze ; 
So o'er the soul in silence rise gentle thoughts 
of thee. 
Whose Virgin-Mother graces outcount the 
starry rays, — 

Gratia plena ! 

Now night's weird shapes and phantoms troop 

forth in shapes of fright ; 
Abroad— sin, death, and peril brood through 

the darkling air : 
Oh ! ask thy Son to guard us ; thy prayer he 

will not slight. 
From crib to cross the sharer of all thy mother 

care, — 

Dominus tecum ! 



Our life is but a shadow, a night of troubled 
dreams. — 
Its visioned woes all fleeting like cloud- 
racks swift away ; 
Pray, Mother, for thy children, till break the 
morning beams. 
Till dawn the dazzling splendors of our 
eternal day. 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Ri. J. A. m<-caffer/y. 



672 



MOA'AL A.\D RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



THE STRING OF THE ROSARY. 
Arbutus came, from out the moist earth peep- 
ing. 
And then a violet and a Bethlehem star, 
And when a daisy smiled which had been 
sleeping 
Down in the pines, where sheltered corners 
are. 
The fields were hidden m a soft green cover 
And our whole world was Lady April's lover. 

The lilacs burst and filled the air with incense. 
Then roses crowded in the way of June, 

Beauties well guarded by their thorns and 
leaves dense. 
Ruddy in daylight, pale 'neath harvest moon ; 

From purest white to deepest crimson ranging. 

In loveliness from bud to blossom changing. 

Then maples in the autumn I And the a^ter 

I saw last year, its petals ruby red. 
Gold-hearted, aromatic ; fast and faster 

The year sf>ed onward to the years that fled ; 
But gorgeous were the banners borne before 

him; 
The clouds took purple vestments to adore 
him. 

The last sad days were not so sad in passing; 
The barns were full, and, hiding here and 
there, 
A late flower bloomed : and to the eastward 
massing 
Against the wind, the cedar hedges were 
Green all the year, and greener in the winter; 
Them ocean gales could neither bend nor 
splinter. 

These have their meaning : ever)' month and 
season 
Speaks to the Christian heart a tale of love ; 
We, knowing this, in each may find a reason 
For tender thoughts for the dear Lord 
above. 
Red roses say " His Sacred Heart remember!" ' 
" Eternal life " cry hedges in December. | 

Poor is the man who sees but earthly flowers. 
Hears only earthly voices in the trees, 

.'Xnd finds no symbols in the starlit hours, ' 

Though his great wealth be blazoned over ' 
seas; 

Poor ! if he in the cloud sees only vapor. 

And in the sun a larger, useful taper. 



Fair silver lines the cloud of sternest duty, 
There is a glow on all our week-day deeds ; 

Through all the year there runs a string of 

beauty [beads. 

Like the bright chain that holds our rosary 

Life is not hard, seen thro' the Resurrection ; 

Nature, read rightly, helps us to j)erfection. 

.MAURICE F. EG AN. 



SONG OF THE SERAPHIM. 
Up where the King of Glory sits. 

Here where His people have their homes, 
Never the wing of a shadow flits. 

Never the wail of a sorrow comes: [thesun. 
But the glimmer of stars, and the gleam of 

And the light that streams from the high 
white Throne, 
Shine while the heavenly anthems run. 

Where angels the words of love intone. 

Out of the mists and above the din. 

Here, where the King of Glorv' reigns. 
Never a shadow enters in. 

Never a troubled voice complains: 
But angels sing the song of the Lamb, 

Whereat the trail of the Serpent ends; 
And the voice of the high-enthroned " I AM " 

A hope for man thro' the ages sends. 

Up where the King of Glory sits, 

Out of the mist and above the din, 
Never the wing of a shadow flits. 

Never a sorrow enters in : 
But light and love, and prayer and praise. 

And charity that all invites, 
Make up the measureless, endless days. 

The days of Heaven that know no nights. 
WILLIA.M I). GALLAGHER. 



A TIRED HEART. 
Dear Lord I if one should some dav come to 

Thee, 
Weary exceedingly, and poor, and worn. 
With bleeding feet, sore pierced of many a 

thorn, 
And lips athirst. and eyes too tired to see. 
And, falling down before Thy face, should 

say. 
Lord, my day counts but as an idle day. 
My hands have garnered fruit of no fair tree, 



PRAYER FOR CALM. 



Empty am I of stores of oil and corn, 

Broken am I and utterly forlorn, 

Yet in thy vine)'ard hast thou room for me?" 

Wouldst turn thy face away ? 
Nay, thou wouldst lift thy lost sheep tenderly. 

"Lord ! Thou art pale, as one that travaileth, 
And Thy wounds bleed where feet and hands 

were riven ; 
Thou hast lain all these years in balms of 

Heaven 
Since Thou wast broken in the arms of 

Death, 
And these have healed not." "Child, be 

comforted. 
I trod the wine-press where thy feet have 

bled. 
Yea, on the Cross I cried with mighty breath, 
Thirsting for thee, whose love was elsewhere 

given ; 
I. God, have followed thee from dawn to 

even. 
With yearning heart, by many a moor and 

heath. 
My sheep that wandered ! 
Now on My breast. Mine arm its head be- 
neath. " 

" Then if this stricken one cried out to Thee, 
' Now mine eyes see that Thou art passing 

fair. 
And thy face, marred of men, beyond com- 
pare,' 
And so should fall to weeping bitterly. 
With ' Lord ! I longed for other love than 

Thine, 
And my feet followed earthly lovers fine. 
Turning from where Thy face entreated me; 
Now these grow cold and wander otherwhere. 
And L heart empty, poor, and very bare. 
Loved of no lover, turn at last to thee ' — 

Wouldst stretch Thine hand divine 
And stroke the bowed head very pityingly?" 

" Shall not My love suffice through thy great 

pain?" 
" Ah, Lord ! all night, without a lighted house. 
While some within held revel and carouse. 
My lost heart wandered in the wind and rain. 
And moaned unheard amid the tempest's 

din." 
•' Peace, peace ! Jf one had sped to let thee 

Perchance this hour were lost for that hour's 



^Jl 

Wouldst thou have sought Me then with thy 

new vows ? 
Ah, child, I too, with bleeding feet and brows. 
Knocked all the night at a heart's door in 



And saw the dawn begin ; 
On My gold head the dews have left a stain. 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 



OLD AGE. 
When age, with soft and secret wand. 

Hath touched and changed the locks to 
What diadem could mortal hand [snow, 

So precious and so fair bestow? 

If then religion's sacred rays 

Beam on these hoary locks of thine. 

What crown, that gems and gold emblaze, 
Can with such holy radiance shine? 

They form a glory round the head. 
To charm the reverent gaze of youth ; 

A lustre o'er their steps to shed. 

And guide them up the hill of truth. 

Oh ! 'tis a wreath of heavenly light. 
Fair emblem of the crown divine. 

That cherubs pure and seraphs bright 
Around the brows of saints entwine. 

WILLIAM H. DkUMMOXD. 



PRAYER FOR CALM. 
When the disciples saw each surging hill 
Of waters threaten that frail bark, aboard 
Of which, rude -pillowed, lay their sleeping 

Lord, 
They roused Him, with affrighted prayers; — 

and still, 
He, only He, can calm the mind at will; 
His sovereign Word alone with power reprove 
Ambition's lumult, the unrest of love, [still. 
And to the heart's wild waves say. Peace, be 
If to ourselves, then, Christ now sleeping 

seem. 
If, in our hearts we feel those billows rave. 
Let us, too, start to prayer from panic's dream. 
And from a risen Saviour mercy crave : 
Thy voice, O Lord, can still give calm 

supreme — 
Without Thee we are lost — but thou canst 

save. 

WILLIAII R. HAMILTON. 



674 

WHO IS THE FOE? 
Who is the foe. tny spirit tell, 
Or what the power of earth or hell. 
That shall my steadfast bosom move 
To quit my dear Redeemer's love ? 
Shall tribulation s gloomy train. 
Or sad distress, or grindinj; pain. 
Or persecution breathing blood. 
Or peril by the land or flood. 
Or famine howling at my board. 
Or tyrant armed with fire and sword ? 
Not these, nor worse, my soul appal. 
Thro' Christ I triumph o'er them all 
And in my secret soul I feel. 
Not danger, want, nor fire, nor steel ; 
Not all the torments death arrays. 
Not all the glories life displays. 
Not empires, diadems, and thrones. 
Nor angels' joys, nor hell's deep groans : 
Not all the present hour reveals. 
Not all futurity conceals. 
Nor height sublime, nor depth profound. 
Nor aught in <ill creation's round. 
Shall e'er my steadfast bosom move 
To quit my dear Redeemer's love. 

WILLIAM H. DRUM.MD.NIJ. 



STELLA MATUTINA. 
1. 
Shine out. O Star, and sing the praise 

Of that unrisen Sun whose glow 
Thus feeds thee with thine earlier rays. — 
The secret of thy song we know. 

Thou sing'st that Sun of Righteousness. 

Sole light of this benighted globe. 
Whose beams, from Him reflected, dress 

His Mother in her shining robe. 

Pale Lily, pearled around with dew. 

Lift high that heaven-illumined vase. 
And sing the glories ever new 

Of her, God's chalice, " full of grace." 

Cerulean Ocean, fringed with white, 
That wear'st her colors evermore, 

?n all thy pureness, all thy might, 

Resf)und her name from shore to shore. 

Her name, and His. that, like thy rim 
Of light the dusky lands around. 

Still girds Creation's shadow dim 
With Incarnation's shining bound. 



MOKAL AXD KELIGIOUS I'OEMS. 



Transfigured Earth, disguised loo long ! 

It falls — that Pagan mask of sense ! 
Burst forth, dumb worlds, at last, in song 

Of Spiritual Intelligence ! 

I "' 

The night thro' yonder cloudy cleft. 

With many a lingering last regard. 
Withdraws— but slowly — and hath left 
Her mantle on the dewy sward. 

The lawns with silver dews are strewn ■ 

The winds lie hushed in cave and tree : 
j Nor stirs a flower, save one alone 

That bends beneath the earliest bee. 

Peace over all the garden broods; 
' Pathetic sweets the thicket throng; 
Like breath the \-apor o'er the woods 
Ascends — d'm words without a song : 

Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like mass 
O'er half yon lake that winds afar. 
.Among the forests still as glass. 
I The mirror of the Morning Star. 

Which, half-way wandering from the sky, 
j Amid the crimson dawn delays, 
I And (large and less alternately) 
I Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze. 

Mother and home of spirits blest ! 

Bright gate of Heaven and Golden Bower, 
Thy best of blessings, love and rest. 

Depart not till on earth thou shower! 

AUllKKV T. DE VKRE. 



NEW ^EAR. 
Light of the stars and worlds unknown. 
In whom all light and life abound ! 
Descending from Thy glorious throne 
The sun has made his yearly round. 
Thou Ruler of all change and time. 
Again we hail the same bright sun. 
Rayed in Thy Majesty sublime. 
Another annual course to run. 

"Tis God Omnipotent that reigns; 
Let earth the shout of gladness raise! 
Ye isles afar, join in the strains. 
And praise Him in your holy days. 
For Thou, from everlasting. Lord! 
To everlasting art the same ; 
No shade of change is in Thy Word ; 
The One eternal is Thy name. 



A PRAYER. 



Ancient of days! when day and night 
Shall cease to measure out Thy love ; 
When time no more his lamp shall light 
At the eternal fount above ; — 
May every soul, that came from Thee, 
In Jesus rise to Thee again ; 
Thy praise be sung eternally. 
By every rank and tribe of men ! 

DAVID WHVTE. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
While shepherds watched theirfiocks by night 

All seated on the ground. 
The angel of the Lord came down. 

And glory shone around. 
" Fear not," said he (for mighty dread 

Had seized their troubled mind); 
" Glad tidings of great joy I bring 

To you and all mankind. 

"To you, in David's town, this day 

Is born of David's line 
The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord ; 

And this shall be the sign : 
The heavenly Babe you there shall find 

To human view displayed. 
All meanly wrapt in swathing bands, 

And in a manger laid." 

Thus spake the Seraph ; and forthwith 

Appeared a shining throng 
Of angels, praising God, and thus 

Addressed their joyful song. 
■■ All glory be to God on high. 

And to the earth be peace ; 
Good-will henceforth from heaven to men 

Begin, and never cease ! " 

NAHUiM TATE. 

A PRAYER OF DOUBT. 
The mystery of life, O Lord, do Thou disclose : 
Why riches, honor, happiness to those 
Who love Thee not are given without stint : 
While they who pray for only Faith, remain 

like flint : 
Lord, I believe ; help thou my unbelief. 

Some feet are consecrate, O Lord, from birth 

to thee ; 
Mine have wandered, reckless and uncertainly: 
Show me the path — how sharp its thorny wall — 
O ! take my hand or I shall faint and fall : 
Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 



675 

The souls that love Thee, Lord, Thy sweet- 
ness know ; 

My soul is cold as mountain capped with 
snow : [divine : 

Touch Thou its crest with ray of warmth 

Lo"! with Thy glory doth the mountain shine ! 
Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 

Some hearts Thou fiUest, Lord, with radiant 
hope : 

My eastern windows rarely, dimly ope : 

Glance Thou this way : the curtains are with- 
drawn — 

My house is burnished with Thine eyelids' 
dawn ! 
Lord, I believe ; help Thou my unbelief. 

MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 



A PRAYER. 
Give me, O Lord, a heart of grace, 
A voice of joy, a shining face, 
That I may show, where'er I turn. 
Thy love within my soul doth burn ! 

Though life be sweet and joy be dear, 
Be in my mind a quiet fear; 
A patient love of pain and care, 
An enmity to dark despair ; 

A tenderness for all that stray. 
With strength to help them on the way ; 
A cheerfulness, a heavenly mirth. 
Brightening my steps along the earth ; 

A calm expectancy of death. 
Who bloweth out our human breath ; 
Who one day cometh in Thy name. 
And putteth out our mortal flame ! 

Press Thou Thy thorns upon my head. 
For I would bleed as Thou hast bled ; 
'Tis meet that I should wounded be 
By that which sorely wounded Thee ! 

I ask, and shrink, yet shrink, and ask ■ 
I know Thou wilt not set a task 
Too hard for hands that Thou hast made, 
Too hard for hands that Thou canst aid. 

So let me dwell all peacefully. 
Content to live, content to die. 
Rejoicing now. rejoicing then. 
Rejoicing evermgre. Amen. 

ROSA MULHOLLAND. 



MORAL AND REUGIOUS POEMS. 



MARY STUARTS LAST PRAYER. 
A lonely mourner kneels in prayer before the 

Virgin's fane. 
With white hands crossed for Jesu's sake, so 

her prayer may not be vain ; 
Wan is her cheek, and very pale,— her voice 

is low and faint. 
And tears are in her eyes the while she makes 

her humble plaint. 

little could you deem from her, her sad and 

lowly mien, 
That she was once the Bride of France, and 
still was Scotland's Queen ! 

"O, Mary Mother! — Mary Mother! be my 

help and stay ! 
Be with me still, as thou hast been, and 

strengthen me to-day ! 
For many a time, with heavy heart, all weary 

of its grief, 

1 solace sought in thy blest thought, and ever 

found relief: 
For thou, too, werta Queen on earth, and men 

were harsh to thee, — 
And cruel things and rude they said, as they 

have said of me ! 

" O, gentlemen of Scotland ! O, Cavaliers of 

France ! 
How each and all had grasped his sword, and 

seized his angry lance, [bride. 

If ladye love, or sister dear, or nearer, dearer 
Had been, like me, your friendless Liege, 

insulted and belied ! 
But these are sinful thoughts and sad, — I 

should not mind me now 
Of faith forsworn, or broken pledge, or false 

or fruitless vow ! 

" But rather pray, sweet Mary, my sins maybe 

forgiven. 
And less severe than on the earth my judges 

prove in heaven ! 
For stern and solemn men have said, God's 

vengeance will be shown, 
And fearful will the penance be on the sins 

which I have done ! 
And yet albeit my sins be great. O Mary, 

Mary dear, 
Nor to Knox nor to false Moray the Judge 

will then give ear! 

'• Yes. it was wrong and thoughtless, when 

first 1 came from France. [dance 

To lead couranle or minuet, or lightsr, gayer 



Yes, it was wrong and thoughtless to while 

whole hours away 
In dark and gloomy Holyrood with some 

Italian lay; 
Dark men would scowl their hate at me, and 

I have heard them tell 
How the just Lord God of Israel had stricken 

Jezebel ! 

"But thou, dear Mary! — Mary mine! hast 
ever looked the same. 

With pleasant mien, and smile serene, on her 
who bore thy name. [not see 

O grant that when anon I go to death, I may 

Nor axe, nor block, nor headsman, but Thee 
and only Thee ! 

Then 'twill be told in coming times, how 
Mary gave her grace 

To die as Stuart, Guise, should die. of Charle- 
magne's fearless race ! " 

r.. S. SMYTH E. 



BROODING SPIRIT. 
O Brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love, 
Whose mighty wings even nowo'ershadow me. 
Absorb me in Thine own immensity. 
And raise me far my finite self above ! 
Purge vanity away, and the weak care 
That name or fame of me may widely spread 
And the deep wish keep burning in their stead. 
Thy blissful influence afar to bear. 
Or see it borne ! Let no desire of ease, 
No lack of courage, faith, or love, delay [way. 
Mine own steps on that high thought-paven 
In which my soul her clear commission sees; 
Yet with an equal joy let me behold 
Thy chariot o'er that way by others rolled ! 

WILLIAM R. HAMILTON. 



ADVENT. 
Morning cometh. wanes the night. 

Dawns the day that endeth never ; 
Gird your loins, ye sons of light. 
Darkness fades and flees forever : 

In the East His sign appears. 
Crown of all the coming years. 

Through the skies a voice is heard, 

Trumpet-iongued. more deep than thunder; 
'Tis Jehovah's mighty word. 
. Kindreds, nations, hear and wonder . 
Spread the tidings far and wide. 
Triumphs now the Crucified. 



CHK/STAIAS. 



Fair as early morning-beams, 

O'er the countless dew-drops shining, 
Wake the saints from peaceful dreams. 
Slumber and the grave resigning : 

Glad they rise, their Lord to meet. 
Follow to the judgment-seat. 

Deep the awe, the fear, the joy, 

Now the Son of Man surrounding — 
Highest Angel-hosts employ 

All their powers His name resounding — 

Christ they praise, with one accord — 
Christ the Saviour, Christ the Lord ! 

Oh ! when round the Throne we stand 

On that glorious Advent-morning, 
Gazing on Thy brow. Thy hand. 

Clothed with radiance, raised in warning, 
Jesu ! may Thy smile of love 
Our Eternal gladness prove. 

WILLIAM M^ILWAINE. 



EASTER. 
What sound is that which wakes the gladsome 
morn? 
Exultant strain from Judah's hill-tops ring- 
ing ? 
Ecstatic notes from joy ecstatic born, 

A ransomed world — a ransomed world is 
singing; 
For in sublimest love 
Christ came from thrones above ; 
And He, to heal our mortal sin. 
Received Death's wound His heart within. 

Yet victor rose from hell. 
And Death is dead, and Life is Lord ! 
Hail, hail to the immortal Word ! 

Let earth's proud paeans swell. 

Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
For burst is hell's dread prison. 

Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
Swell your triumphant voice, — 
The Christ, the Christ is risen ! 

What gleam is that whereat the round world 
thrills. 
His glorious triumphal car adorning.' [hills, 
Lo ! where his steeds have spurned the Orient 
Breaks showered light on dun-rolled clouds 
of morning! 
Now He who walked the earth 
In guise of lowliest birth 



Is crowned the royal King of Kings, 
For Whom the spacious heaven rings ; 

And they of low degree 
With joy of joy His coming greet 
Who hurls the mighty from their seat. 

And bids the slave be free. 
Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 

For burst is Death's dark prison. 
Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 

Swell your triumphant voice, 

For Christ our Lord is risen ! 

Christ God! for Thee the sun-browed Nations 
wait. 
Who hail Thy name and own Thy name for 
ever ! — 
O Thou who flungest wide the sapphire gate 
Of that new world where Life and Love 
part never! 
Thine awful power appals 
And splendor dread enthrals r 
Yet from the glory of Thy face 
There gleams an all-redeeming grace 
That lightens woe's dark fen. 
And 'neath Thy sway divinely mild. 
Glads Earth and Heaven, and Chaos wild. 
And Eden blooms again. 

Rejoice ! Rejoice! 
For burst is Sin's foul prison ; 

Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
Swell the triumphant voice 
That Christ our God is risen ! 

ROWLAND B. MAHANV. 



CHRISTMAS. 



Lift high your notes. 
Ye bright adoring throng 
Who nearest stand 
To God's right hand 
Engaged in ardent song. 
Pour out to-day, along your utmost line, 
The richest measures of the art divine. 
Through all your deeps let peal the lofty 

hymn — 
The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 

And ye who roam 
Amongst the spacious plains 

In His employ. 

Who is your joy. 
Take up the inspiring strains. 



678 



MORAL Ai\D HELIOIOUS POEMS. 



And. while all heaven in silent wonder stands, 
Clap, clap in unison, your myriad hands. 
And to the sympathetic crowds proclaim — 
The Christ is born to-day in Eiethlehem. 

Earth, earth take up 
The full harmonious lay. 
In hut and hall. 
Let great and small. 
Be one with heaven to-day. 
No gladder news has thrilled the air before— 
Hear it, ye lost ones, and be lost no more ; 
Awake to hope, ye sons of sin and shame. 
The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 

To-day. to-day, 
Brothers, rejoice, to-day 
The clouds have fled. 
The sun has shed 
On every heart his ray. 
Hail. Prince of Peace ! hail. Uncreated Light 1 
We give Thee welcome. King of Truth and 

Right ! 
Our hearts are glad to hear the loud acclaim— 
The Christ is born to-day in Bethlehem. 

WILLIAM COWAN. 



THE HOPE OF THE SAINT. 
City! brighter than the sun, 

Than the silver moon more fair , 
Height, by saints and martyrs won, 

Climbed through want, and woe, and care- 
Oft, methinks, I see thy gates. 

Each a pearl of purest ray ; 
Hear the jubilee which waits 

Those who walk thy golden way ; 
View thy walls, as crj'stal clear. 

Built with gem and precious stone ; 
Bring thy vision'd glories near. 

Catch the radiance of thy throne ; 
Pause to hear the central psalm 

Rising round the fount of love. 
Where the white robe and the palm 

Grace that host, all hosts above. 
And should earth come gliding in. 

Such brief moments' bliss to blight — 
Strong temptation, dream of sin. 

Cloud of sorrow, shade of night- 
Still thy brightness o'er me shed 

Draws to heaven the silent prayer— 
Oh I the paths of peace to tread ! 

Least and lowest — only there ! 

WILLIAM MdLWAINK. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
Merrily the minster bells 

Peal upon the morn 
Cheerily their music tells 

"Christ to-day is born." 
'Tis the tale the angels told 
To the shepherds in the fold. 
Chanting heavenly melodies. 
While God's glory filled the skies. 

Let us chant that hymn sublime 

That erst the angels sung, 
Let every race and every clime, 

.\nd every heart and tongue. 
Wake a world-wide song of praise, 
As the joyful strain they raise. 
Earth proclaim and heaven reply 
•• Glory be to God on High ! " 

Not myrrh, nor frankincense, nor gold. 

The oflferings we bring. 
As royal Magians gave of old 

To Child and God and King. 
We give not part, we give the whole ; 
We give our spirit, body, soul ; 
We love, and worship, and obey. 
The infant God-King born to-day 

Minster bells, peal merrily 

On this festal morn — 
"Glory be to God on High ! 

Christ to-day is born ."" 
So sang the Church in ages past. 
So shall she sing while time shall last, 
Her hymn on earth, while warring, given, 
Her hymn triumphant yet in heaven ! 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLKk. 



THE NATIVITY. 
Uplift the voice of melody, your choicest 

numbers bring. 
Of grace divine the song shall be, and mercy's 

flowing spring; 
We'll celebrate the mighty love of Him, who. 

throned on high. 
Descended from that throne above, to suflfer 

and to die. 

Uplift the voice of melody, to hail the glorious 
morn, 

That saw in Bethl'em's manger lie the won- 
drous Virgin-born ; 



EASTER VOICES. 



6/9 



We'll follow in the shining train of that 
seraphic band, 

Whose voices bore, in choral strain, the tid- 
ings thro' the land. 

Uplift the voice of melody, " to us a Son is 

given "— 
Shout " peace, good-will " and victory, the 

bonds of sin are riven ; 
He comes " the Sun of Righteousness," with 

healing in His wings — 
He comes, a ransom 'd world to bless, and reign 

the King of kings. 

Uplift the voice of melody, " Hosanna to the 

Lord " — 
Let earth, let ocean, and let sky take up the 

joyous word. 
And hail with us the glorious day that gave 

the Saviour birth. 
To Him united homage pa)' — Emmanuel — 

God on earth ! 

WILLIAM BLACKKl. 



CHRIST IS BORN. 

Christ is born, go tell the story. 
Tell the nations of His birth ; 

Tell them that the Lord of Glory 

Comes from heaven to dwell on earth ; 

Let the tidings 
Fill the world with sacred mirth. 

See, He lies in yonder manger: 
" Prince of Life," His title is, 

'Midst His own, and yet a stranger. 
All things seen and unseen His ; 

Yet neglected : 
Wonder, O ye heavens, at this. 

See fulfill'd prophetic vision, 

" Unto us a child is born ; " 
Though an object of derision. 

Though the theme of human scorn : 
Yet His people 
Hail His birth, and cease to mourn. 

Hail, Emmanuel, child of promise, 
' Lord of all " in humble guise ; 
Long detain'd ,and absent from us. 
Come at length to bless our eyes : 

Hail, Emmanuel ! 
God the Saviour, only Wise! 

TH(JMAS KELLY. 



ON THE MOUNTAIN'S TOP. 
On the mountain's top appearing, 

Lo! the sacred herald stands. 
Welcome news to Zion bearing, 
Zion long in hostile hands ; 
Mourning captive ! 
God himself will loose thy bands. 

Has thy night been long and mournful .' 
Have thy friends unfaithful proved.' 

Have thy foes been proud and scornful. 
By thy sighs and tears unmoved } 

Cease thy mourning, 
Zion still is well beloved. 

God, thy God, will now restore thee 
He himself appears thy friend; 

All thy foes shall flee before thee. 
Here their boasts and triumphs end. 

Great deliverance 
Zion's King vouchsafes to send. 

Enemies no more shall trouble. 
All thy wrongs shall be redress 'd ; 

For thy shame thou shalt have double, 
In thy Maker's favor bless 'd ; 

All thy conflicts 
End in everlasting rest. 

THOMAS KELLY. 



EASTER VOICES. 
Ere yet the gloom of night had been 
By morn's first glory chased away, 
Weeping, stood Mary Magdalene 

Beside the grave, where Jesus lay. 
" Why weepest thou ? be not afraid ; 

Why is thy faint heart bowed with fear.' 
Behold the place where He was laid : 
He is not here! " 

•' Hear ye not still His voice, which saith : 
' To Death they must deliver Me.' 

But I shall burst the bonds of Death, 
And rise again, and live for thee ! ' 

From thy sad heart Doubt's shadows chase ! 
For all hath been, as He hath said : 

' The Lord is risen ; lo ! the place 
Where He was laid : ' " 

O Easter Voices, holy, sweet ! 

O bright and hallowed Easter Ray, 
That glittered at the head and feet 

Of where my Saviour's body lay ! 



68o 



AtOJi.-lL .l.\/> KEI.h.luUS J'OKM.s 



In faith, this morn. Thy Light I see, 

And. gazing on Thy glory, sing: 
"O grave, where is thy victory? 

Where. Death, thy sting?" 

Ere break of day my Lord arose : 
O Day-spring of my soul is He ! 

O. what is Night or Death to those. 
Dear Easter Light, who trust in Thee ? 

O. should one doubt my soul imprison. 
Or any shade of earth be near. 

Speak. Easter Voices : " He is risen : 
He is not here ! " 

Thou art not here. From realms above. 

Look down, nor let our spirits fail ! 
Grant us Thy peace, and to Thy Love. 

Rabboni, bid our spirits hail! 
Calm Thou our faint heart "s transient strife : 

O. bid our spirits cease from fear. 
And turn to Thee, for that true Life 
Which is not here ! 

SAMTKL K. COWAN. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 
J'or Gooif- Friday. 
, The hands of the King are soft and fair. 
I They never knew labor's stain. 
The hands of the Robber redly wear 
I The bloody brand of Cain. 
But the hands of the Man arc hard and scarred 
With the scars of toil and pain. 

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands 

As white as a king's may be. 
Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands ; 

For the world has made him free. 
But Thy palms, toil-worn, by nails are torn. 

O Christ, on Calvary ! 

JAMl->; JKFFRF.V ROCHF.. 



HEARTS OF OURS. 
Who that a watcher doth remain 
Beside a couch of mortal pain. 
Deems he can ever smile again ? 

Or who that weeps beside a bier 
Counts he has any more to fear 
From the world's flatteries, false and leer? 

And yet anon and he doth start 
At the light toys in which his heart 
Can now already claim its part. 

O hearts of ours ! so weak and poor. 
That nothing there can long endure ; 
And so their hurts find shameful cure — 

While every sadder, wiser thought. 
Each holier aim which sorrow brought, 
Fadws quite away and comes to naught. 

O Thou, who dost our weakness know. 
Watch for us. that the strong hours so 
Not wean us from our wholesome wo. 



Grant Thou that we may long 



The wliol 



memories of jjain. 



Nor wisli to lose them soon agai 

RICHAKD CHKNKVIX 



UNISON. 
Out from that darker line that marks the 
Land, 
Into the vast mid-ocean runs the song. 
Shouting its praises to the Universe 
In measures loud and long. 

With deep resounding through the salty main 
The swift-sent message of an iron throat 

Reaches the monster of the nether-sea 
In hoarse prolonged note. 

Across the stormy petrel's swaying path 
From polished decks the music in delight 

Rushes, and. like the beating wings of birds. 
Takes outward, upward flight. 

Unto the Earth, its hills, its plains, its dales, 
Gladness has come because the Christ is 
born. 

Concordant murmurs ever flowing out 
Welcome the Christmas Morn ! 

The Morn that brings a promise everj' year 
From seraphs watching near the Bethlehem 
shrine 

Or Fold, we call a Manger, but a Court 
Whose Courtiers are divine ; 

The heart of Erin rings in all its bells. 

England and Scotland, as in early days. 
Give to the Heavenly Prince of Orient birth 

Honor in words of praise. 

In gold and white, and scarlet as the flowers 
Investured are. as kings of ancient Rome, 

The inner walls of each Italian fane 
From lintel unto dome 



THE KfNGDOM OF GOD. 



681 



Show the fair garb of holiday attire, 

With many a gleaming light that shines afar. 

In semblance of that jewel of the skies 
We name the Shepherd's Star. 

From storied Rhineland's castle-bordered 
slopes. 

From stately spires of Switzer-Alpine vales. 
Broad surging hymnal greetings floating out 

Are borne on frosty gales. 

Through Spain and Portugal, and France and 
Greece. 
In this our Land, from shore to fartherest 
shore, 
Stirreth a sound of sweetness and of joy 
To Him whom we adore. 

The bugler's silvery calling from the Fort 
Winds far across the prairie's untouched 
snow, 

Startling among the shallow reefed bluffs 
The sad-eyed, timid roe. 

As o'er Pacific's angr\', heaving tide 

The gun proclaims the dawn unto the 
West, 

So breaks the sweeter blast of bugle sounds 
The cold Sierra's rest. 

ESiMERALDA BOYLE. 



ONE CORPUS CHRISTI. 
" Flowers ? Are they for a bride .' " he .said. 
And wondered if that graceful head. 
Now bent to catch the soft perfume. 
Was soon to wear their tender bloom ; 
But when she raised her modest eyes. 
And answered him in half surprise, 
" No, they are for our Lord," he smiled. 
And thought: " This is indeed a child." 

" Give me the loveliest," she said, 
" Delicate white and rosy red, 
And heliotrope and mignonette, 
All that you know and I forget ; 
And heap these crimson roses, so. — 
Yes. they are costly, that I know ; 
But what can be too fair and sweet 
To strew beneath His sacred feet.^ " 

The light was fading, broken flowers 
Lay scattered thro' the aisles in showers. 



For all their fragrant wealth that day 
Had marked the Master's glorious way ; 
And now. before the altar-rail, 
A girl knelt, motionless and pale. 

A line of sunlight touched her hair. 

Her slender hands were clasped in prayer ; 

In silent bliss the moments passed. 

For she had lingered to the last. 

Unconscious, in that holy spot. 

Of eyes that watched, and wearied not. 

" How beautiful " — the whispered thought. 
All human, all of earth, she caught ; 
And reading what that thought expressed 
By the one kej'-note in her breast, — 
Uplifting her adoring head, 
" Is He not beautiful?" she said. 

A thrill of awe, a flush of shame, 

He knelt and named the Saviour's name, — 

Softly she glided from the place. 

He never looked upon her face : — 

Low bent to earth his suppliant head, 

"O Lord, make me a child," he said. 

.MARY E. MANNIX. 



THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 
I say to thee, do thou repeat. 
To the first man thou mayest meet 
In lane, highway, or open street — 

That he. and we, and all men, move 

Under a canopy of love. 

As broad as the blue sky above : 

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
And anguish, all are shadows vain ; 
That death itself shall not remain. 

That weary deserts we may tread, 
A dreary labyrinth may thread. 
Thro' dark ways underground be led : 

Yet if we will one Guide obey, 

The dreariest path, the darkest way, 

Shall issue out in heavenly day. 

And we. on divers shores now cast. 
Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 
All in our Father's house at last. 

And ere thou leave him. say thou this 
Yet one word more: — they only miss 
The winning of that final bliss 



68: 



MORAL AXD KELIGIOUS POEMS. 



Who will not count it that true Love, 
Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 
And that in it we live and move. 

And one thing further make him know- 
That to believe these things are so. 
This firm faith never to forego. 

Despite of all which seems at strife : 
With blessing, all with curses rife.— 
That this is blessing, this is life. 

RItHARU CHENEVIX TRENCH. 



And I rejoice to think that in my breast 
There's not a thought or wish but long ago 
Was known, my Saviour and my Judge, to 
t Thee. 

Before Thy hand in secret fashioned me. 
Therefore. I pray Thee, search and try my 
And lead me in the everlasting way. [heart. 
And cleanse me from my sin against the day 
When 1 shall see Thee, Saviour, as thou art. 

' JOSEPH J. MlRl'HV. 



ON THE RIVIERA. , 

Under an aged olive, by the sea. I 

A charcoal fire, and fish thereon, and bread— 
For there a fisher crew their meal had spread — 
I saw ; and as I saw. to Galilee [where said . 
My thoughts were borne, and to the beach 
The Saviour to the Apostle, Laai'sI Thou Me? 
I could not speak like Peter, but. instead. 
I felt mine eyes with silent tears grow dim. 
To think how weak and faint my love to Him. 

Yet I have ser\'ed Him for a length of years ; 
1 would not hide one secret from His sight; 
And still I have not done with doubts and 

fears ; 
My path is but a darkness crossed with light, 
And Heaven most like a clouded heaven 

appears ; 
His joy by flashes only have 1 gained. 
His constant peace I never have attained. 

And so it was with Peter and the rest. 
They knew that He who died was raised again. 
But knew not of the blessings they possessed. 
And spread the net once more, their food to 

gain, 
And all the night they spread the net in vain ; 
But when the morning glowed upon the lake. 
The Saviour stood upon the shore, and spake. 

And unto me He spake, that summer day. 
Under the olives, on Liguria's shore. 
And though I made no answer. He will stay. | 
He stands beside me when 1 cannot pray, I 
He follows me and finds me when 1 stray, 
.'\nd leads me back to bless Him and adore. | 

The pure in heart shall see Thee and be blest. 
But am I pure ? I know not ; but I know- 
It is Thy will, my God. to make me so. 
And in that knowledge I can safely rest ; 1 



WHEN MY LOVE IS FAILING. 
When my love is failing. 
Sin and earth prevailing. 

Oh, Lord, remember me! 
When my faith is weakest, 
When the strayed Thou seekest. 

Oh, then remember me ! 
When my foes endeavor 
From my Lord to sever 
This frail heart for ever. 

Still I'll cling to Thee ; 
Let me never leave Thee. 
Ne'er disturb or grieve Thee, 

Oh I still remember me ! 

When, in hours of sighing. 
Earth's bright joys are flying. 

Then, Lord, remember me; 
In the tomb when laying 
Best lov'd forms decaying. 

Oh, Lord, remember me 
When my heart benighted. 
Sees each fond hope blighted, 
When the joys that lighted 

All life's pathway flee; 
Let Thy smile to gladness 
Turn my tears of sadness. 

Then, Lord, remember me! 

When life's hours are closing. 
On Thy love reposing. 

Oh. Lord, remember me I 
E'en in death's dark river 
Thou canst save for ever. 

Then, Lord, remember me ; 
When from heaven descending. 
All Thy saints attending 
Rocks and mountains rending. 

Earth her Lord shall see ; 
When Thy throne Thou gainest. 
And in glorv reignest. 

Then. Lord, remember me! 

I.SA.\C ASHE. 



A/]- FATHER'S HOUSE. 



683 



THOU ART, GOD. 
Thou art, O God, the life and light 

Of all this wondrous world we see ; 
Its glow by day, its smile by night. 

Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 
And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 

When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of Even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into Heaven — 

Those hues, that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant. Lord ! are Thine. 

When Night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine. 

So grand, so countless. Lord! are Thine. 

When youthful Spring around us breathes. 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the Summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine. 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

THOMAS MOORE. 



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 
Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish. 

Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; 
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your 
anguish — 
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot 
heal. 

Joy of the desolate. Light of the straying, 

Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure. 
Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name 
saying — 
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot 
cure." 

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us. 

What charms for ach i ng hearts /^f? can re veal , 
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings 
us — 
" Earth has no sorrow that God cannot 
heal." 

THOMAS MOORE. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL. 
This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 

There's nothing true but Heaven ! 

And false the light on Glory's plume, 

As fading hues of Even ; 
And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom. 
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — 

There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 

Poor wanderers of a stormy day. 

From wave to wave we're driven, 

And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray 

Serve but to light the troubled way — 

There's nothing calm but heaven. 

THOMAS MOORE. 



MY FATHER'S HOUSE. 

Thou hast pitied my heart's great needing. 
Thou hast stooped to my low estate. 

And opened unto my pleading 
The long-sealed beautiful gate. 

Thro' the wilds of gloom and sadness 
Thou hast been my spirit and guard. 

Into the light and gladness 
Of the courts of Thy house, O Lord. 

Why should I fear or falter 

Under a roof so blest } 
Here, near Thy holy Altar, 

Surely Thy child may rest. 

Here in Thy house it endeth. 

My quest that was so vain. 
For the spirit of peace descendeth, 

Stilling the olden pain. 

In Thy house, my Father, never 

Is grief that burns and stings, 
Nor the anguish of lost endeavor. 

Nor the shadow that chills and clings. 

For Thy love makes rest of labor. 
And gain of the bitterest loss. 

And the glory and joy of Thabor, 
In the shade of the drearest Cross. 

KATHEKINE E. CONWAY. 



684 



MOKAL AND KELIGIOUS POEMS. 



BELOW AND ABOVE. 
Down below, the wild November whistling 
Through the beech's dome of burning red. 
And the Autumn sprinkling penitential 
Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. 

Down below, a pall of airy purple, 
Darkly hanging from the mountain side, 
And the sunset from his eyebrow staring 
O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. 

Up above, the tree with leaf unfading 
By the everlasting river's brink. 
And the sea of glass, beyond whose margin 
Never yet the sun was known to sink. 

Down below, the white wings of the sea-bird, 
Dash'd across the furrows dark with mould. 
Flitting with the memories of our childhood 
Through the trees now waxen pale and old. 

Down below, imaginations quivering 
j Through our human spirits like the wind, 
^ Thoughts that toss like leaves about the 
woodland, 

Hopes like sea-birds flash'd across the mind. 

Up above, the host no man can number. 
In white robes, a palm in ever)^ hand ; 
Each some work sublime forever working. 
In the spacious tracts of that great land. 

Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish. 
Tender care, sweet love for us below. 
Noble pity free from anxious terror. 
Larger love without a touch of woe. 

Down below, a sad mysterious music. 
Wailing thro' the woods and on the shore, 
Hurthened with a grand, majestic secret 
That keeps sweeping from us evermore. 

Up above, a music that entwineth 
With eternal threads of golden sound. 
The great poem of this strange existence. 
All whose wondrous meaning has been found. 

Down below, the church to whose poor window 
Glory by the autumnal trees is len 
And a knot of worshippers in mourning, 
Missing some one at the Sacrament. 

Up above, the burst of Hallelujah, 
And (without the sacramental mist 



Wrapt around us like a sunlit halo) 
The great vision of the face of Christ. 

I Down below, cold sunlight on the tombstones. 
j And the green wet turf with faded flowers ; 

Winter roses, once like young hopes burning. 

Now beneath the ivy dripped with showers. 

And the new made grave within the church- 
! yard, 

I And the white cap on that young face pale. 
I .And the watcher, ever as it dusketh. 

Rocking to and fro with that long wail. 

Up above, a crowned and happy spirit. 
Like an infant in the eternal years, 
( Who shall grow in love and life forever, 
Order'd in his place among his peers. 

O, the sobbing of the winds of Autumn, 
j .\nA the sunset streak of stormy gold, [yard. 
And the poor heart, thinking in the church- 
■ Night is coming, and the grave is cold." 

O. the pale, and plash 'd, and sodden roses, 
.And the desolate heart that grave above, 
.And the white cap shaking as it darkens 
Round that shrine of memory and love. 

O, the rest for ever and the rapture. 
And the hand that wipes the tears away; 
And the golden homes beyond the sunset. 
And the hope that watches o'er the clay ! 

WILLl.A.M ALEXANDER. 



THE PATRIARCHAL TIME. 
O world ! thou hoary monster, whose old age 
Is gray in guilt! How purer and more fair 
The freshness of thins infancy to share! 
The primal records of the holy page 
Tell how, amid thy morn, the Form of God 

Lighted the valleys of our vernal earth 

A parent, with the children of His birth— 
And smiled to dark the sunshine, as He trod ! 
Tending their flocks among the quiet hills 
.And shadowed waters of their orient clime. 
The men of majesty, in early time. 
Bore heaven upon their brow I Alas ! it chills 
The soul to mark the God-given spirit's 

course. 
Beam of the Eternal Sun, dissevered from its 

source ! 

WILLIA.\I ARCHER BUTLER. 



A PSALM OF HOPE. 



685 



A PSALM OF HOPE. 
What mean they standing aloof, the people 
who watch us and weep, 
Tearing the hair in sorrow, and wailing and 
beating their breast? 
Is it aught if the stream roll wide, is it aught 
if the waters leap. 
Swollen by snows, by the storm lashed white 
without pity or rest ? 
Have we not crossed many worse in our march 
O God ! as we follow 
Leader or lord who has led for a time and 
has fallen asleep. 
Seeking to see Thee and feel Thee anear, go- 
ing forth by the hollow 
White glens cut aloft in the hills, by the 
sands of the shore of the deep? 

Would they bid us halt in our path ? Would 
they turn and go back in the night. 
And abide with the beasts of the fields, and 
herd in the dens of the rocks? 
Nay. for our hearts are strong to the end, and 
we fear no might 
Of waters, or loud storm blowing, or horror 
of thunder-shocks. 
We will on through the night and the storm, 
we will march to the bountiful land. 
We scoft at the lightning's glare, we laugh 
at the torrent's roar, 
As we plunge in the hurrying tide, and beat 
with a buffeting hand 
Foam and eddying flood, and stem to the 
further shore. 

For. ever thou drawest us on in the track of 
invisible feet. 
Through the crisp white mountain snows, 
through the pathless desert ways. 
By the grisly wastes of wood, by the blossom- 
ing gardens sweet. 
By the dry sea-wolds of sand, by the cur\'es 
of the tideless bays. 
High over the spears of crag a-drip with the 
sunset's blood. 
By the shores of the desolate lakes that 
slumber in tracts of death. 
'Mid the flakes of splintering rock where the 
great snow-cataracts flood. 
In the fume of the watery flats, in the sul- 
phurous crater's breath. 

Through sorrowful spaces and sweet we march 

with resolute heart. [roll by : 

Nearer and nearer to Thee as ever the years 



And more and more as we move in the wan- 
dering paths outstart 
Signs that quicken the pulse, that brighten 
the fainting eye: 
Forlo. in the tremulous flowers we have found 
a shadow of Thee 
In the purpled banners of day that flutter 
about the west. 
In the droves of the flaming clouds blown 
nor'ward over the sea. 
In the hues of the shining plumes, in the 
gloss of the leopard's breast. 

We have wrung from the clenched crags the 
tale of Thy deeds of old, 
We have heard the hurrying spheres in 
music whisper praise, 
And the leaves of Thy love have prattled, the 
birds of Thy love have told 
And the streams that flash, and the deer 
that leaps, and the lamb that plays. 
And we grow with the vision's growth, with 
the dawn of Thy love and power, 
Clearer of eye, and keener of ear, and 
stronger of soul : 
And pain is lightlier borne, and lighter the 
driving shower. 
As we push through storm and suns, and 
strain to the utmost goal. 

And sometimes, fair in sight, will flash in a 
tide of light 
A symbol of peace to be, a promise of power 
to attain ; 
For sometimes while we pause on a moun- 
tain's lonely height 
Out of the stretching seas, behold, without 
shadow or stain, [of gold, 

A thousand marble spires, a cluster of domes 
Will arise and fire our blood ; on a land of 
loveliest dyes. 
Bowery plots and streams, and mountains, 
fold on fold. 
In the sheen of the moon or sun, breaks 
sudden under the skies ■ 

Or a rushing music sings from far through the 
waves and trees ; [anear. 

Or odor of mystic boundless gardens floats 
Yea, we are strong in trust, we are strong in 
the faith that sees, 
And the love that yearns and clings, and 
the hope that conquereth fear ; 
And dear, though rough, is the march, and 
sweet is the sound of our feet 



686 



MOKAL AXD REUOIOCS POEMS. 



the 



Treading in time together, and gay 
voices blent. 
As wc sing in the lonely ways, and a mirthful 



measure beat. 
Brethren marching foot to foot ever on \ 
one intent. 



ith 



Oh, 'tis good to live and strain, and pain but 
turns to mirth. 
And we hail the worst with smiling lips as 
we march along to Thee : 
For doing the deeds of men. we taste of the 
blisses of earth. 
We attain to the ampler life, we grow as the 
angels free ; 
And ever Thou drawest us on. and ever we 
follow sure, 
And Thou waitest our coming, we know, 
afar in invisible lands, 
I n the crowd of the spirits of light, in the realms 
that ever endure. 
To enroll us. born of Thee, at the last in the 
deathless bands. 
To clothe us anew with strength and the fer- 
vor that shall not die. 
For the glorious deeds of gods, for the do- 
ing of works untold. 
So soon as the years have run their span. O 
God Most High. 
And the season of man is spent, and the 
cloud into daikness rolled. 

GEORGE K. ARMSTRONG. 



ON THE HEIGHT. 
A dream of heat and labor. 

Of climbing and holding one's breath. 
Up steep, black rocks in the desert : — 

The desert was grim as death. 

Desperate toil that clihibing. 
Never daring a downward eye ; 

Beneath, a precipice deadly. 
Above, the strong blue sky. 

And when I reached the summit, 
Where the air and sun were sweet, 

A pool of living water 

Lay in the rock at my feet. 

And a man. dusk-faced, white-turbaned. 

Said. •• Traveler, this is the spring 
That the prophet Elijah drank from 

When he fled from the wrath of the King.' 



I think the dream has a moral ; 

Only the feet that have trod 
Rude rock and wearj-ing desert 

Come at last to the waters of God. 

GEORGE T. LANIGAN. 



HYMN FOR MORNING. 

Sec. the star that leads the day. 
Rising, shoots a golden ray. 
To make the shades of darkness go 
From heaven above and earth below; 
And warn us early with the sight. 
To leave the beds of silent night ; 
From a heart sincere, and sound 
From its very deepest ground. 
Send devotion up on high. 
Wing'd with heat to reach the sky. 
See. the time for sleep has run, 

Rise before, or with the sun ; 

Lift the hands, and humbly pray 
The Fountain of eternal day ; 
That as the light serenely fair 

Illustrates all the tracts of air. 
The sacred Spirit so may rest. 

With quickening beams, upon thy breast. 

And kindly cleanse it all within 

From darker blemishes of sin ; 

And shine with grace until we view 

The realm it gilds with glorj' too. 

See. the day that dawns in air 

Brings along its toil and care; 

From the lap of night it springs. 

With heaps of business on its wings; 

Prepare to meet them in a mind 

That bows submissively resigned ; 

That would to works appointed fall. 

That knows that God has ordered all. 

And whether, with a small repast. 

We break the sober morning fast ; 

Or in our thoughts and houses lay 

The future methods of the day ; 

Or early walk abroad to meet 

Our business with industrious feet ; 

Whate'er we think, whate'er we do. 

His glor)' still be kept in view. 

O. giver of eternal bliss. 

Heavenly Father, grant me this; 

Grant it all, as well as me, 

.AH whose hearts are fixed on Thee ; 

Who revere Thy Son above. 

Who Thy sacred Spirit love. 

THO.MAS PARNELL. 



THE HEAVENLY FATHERLAND. 



687 



A REVERIE. 
I have ere now been half inclined 

To wish the present life were all ; 

That death upon the soul might fall. 
And darkness overwhelm the mind ; 

Not that I envied then the beast 
Which never thinks of good or ill. 
And only cares to eat his fill 

At mighty Nature's bounteous feast; 

But that our motives might be pure, 
And free our choice, and clear our way, 
The law of conscience to obey, 

Whether to act or to endure ; 

To fight with sin, without regard 
To conquests in the battle won ; 
To say at last, " My work is done : 

I die. and seek for no reward." 

And yet I know 'tis better far 

That faith should look beyond the grave 
On Him who died the world to save. 

And rose to be the polar star, 

For ever, of our hope and love ; 

"To guide us on, through death and night. 
To realms of deathless life and light, 

To mansions of the blest above. 

1 know 'tis well to trust the Power 
Who makes the buried seeds to bloom. 
That He will raise me from the tomb. 

As summer's breath awakes a flower; 

To take a child upon my knee. 

Or lay what was my friend in dust, 
And feel a reverential trust 

That He who made them both to be — 

Who gives us death as well as birth, 
And maketh children grow to men — 
Will give us other life again. 

More blessed than the life on earth. 

JOSEPH J. MURPHY. 



In the tinkling of the vesper bells. 
I Listen, listen, and come, young and old ; 

Enter the antique shrine ; behold 

How slantingly the stain'd rays pour 

Their hues on the tessellated floor ; 

The footfall's sound 

Thro' the pillar'd aisle runs round and round ; 

The sainted figures as you pass 

Seem to smile from the tinted glass; 

The worshippers are upon bended knees. 
! Heed not these ; 

While the penitential prayer 

Swells full of sorrow on the air ; 

The solemn aisles of the temple thrill 

Till the words of absolution fall 

Like the dew of heaven, to still 
I The restless hearts of all. 

Hark ! the chant hovers and floats 

Over the pealing organ-notes ; 

Lip to the choir of seraphim 
j Rise the cadences of that holy hymn, 
i The Soul, an athlete 
I From the arena's dust and heat. 

Now drinks the cup of strength and youth. 

Drawn from the fount of the Word of Truth, 

Resting at Jesus' feet. 

The world shut out, the heart keeps tryst 

Alone and long with the Saviour Christ, 

LIntil the words of blessing shed 

Seal the grace to heart and head. 

In sooth, an image of joy divine 

Kx. evensong is thine. 

If thou prayest thus at the day's decline. 

K. W. BUCKLEY. 



EVENSONG. 
On Summer eves, 

When the spirit of music awakes in the leaves, 
Whispering low sweet tones ; 
When the stars look down on the quiet scene, 
As happy as if they were angels' thrones ; 
No sound, I ween. 
Steeps the soul in a calm so holy 
As that now gay, now melancholy. 
Which dwells and swells 



THE HEAVENLY FATHERLAND. 
Within a vast cathedral pile the benediction 

hymn was pealing. 
Beside me in the crowded aisle a group of 

emigrants were kneeling ; 
Their homely raiment shedding round the 

briny odor of the ocean. 
They bent their foreheads to the ground, the 

rough hands clasp'd in rapt devotion : 
And staff and bundle cast aside, were watered 

with the tend 'rest tears. 
As soft the old familiar hym n was wafted to 

the exiles' ears. 
I heard them sob— I saw them lift their stream- 
1 ing eyes to that bless 'd dome ; 

Strange voices in a foreign land were carolling 

the hvmn of home; 



688 



MORAL AXD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



And backward o'er the dangerous seas in Loathing our very life, with its pitiful daily 



Fancy's ships once more they floated. 



need: 



The music of the billows heard that swelled ] Learning in pain and weakness that labor is 



on Erin's coast devoted : 



doom indeed. 



And trod once more the chapel-green, and ^^^ jj,is the meed of the struggle :— tent and 



pluck 'd the shamrocks from the sward. 



raiment and bread : 



And knelt again with dearest kin before the q fg^ j^e " Requiescant. " and the sleep of the 



altar of the Lord 



:lioir : 



Out 



Oh ! sweetly sang the hidden 

vitam sine termino, 
Xobis done! in patria," the simple strain was 

clear and low ; 

And. like a dream in troubled sleep, before 
them rose the vanish "d scene. 

(Alas I how bitter are the tears that keep the 
graves of mem'ry green I) 

No busy ploughman in the field, no laughing 

children at the gate ; 
The cabin walls in ruin laid ; the mortgaged 

farm, the lost estate ; 

The gray-hair'd Soggarth bow'd in pain above 

the pallet of the dying. 
The precious dead (by sorrow slain), beneath 

the turf and shamrocks lying — 

Almighty Father! if there were no blest abid- 
ing place with Thee 

How could the hapless exile bear the burden 
of his misery I 

If, through the rain-drops of his tears, he saw 

no bow of promise shining. 
How could the cloud of sorrow, touched by 

hope, reveal its silver lining? 



I>ardoned dead ! 

O the visions that torture and tempt us (how 
shall the heart withstand) — 

The fountains, the groves, the grottos of the 
Godless Lotus-land ? 

O the soft, entreating voices, making the 

tired heart leap. 
"Come over to us, ye toilers, and we will sing 

ye to sleep." 

A fatal sleep, we trow I but \vc are sad unto 

death. 
And the Lotus flower summons us with its 

sweet and baneful breath. 

We look to our fellow toilers — what help, 

what comfort there.' 
They're bowed by the self-same burden, beset 

by the self-same care. 

Falleth the ashen twilight— meet close for 

the dreary day . 
Hark to the chimes from the church-tower ! 

— but we are too tired to pray. 



Ah, God. who lovest Thy creatures, sinful and 
poor and weak. 
But angels soothe him as they sing of endless ' Hear'st prayer in the tired heart's throbbing. 



days and joys to come. 
In Faith's eternal Fatherland, the cxili 
universal Home ! 

ELE.\N()R (_■. UONNEl.LV. 



LOTUS AND LILY. 
Sometimes a dark hour cometh for us who 

are bound to bear 
The burden of lowly labor, the fetters of lowly 



An hour when the heart grows sick of the 
workday's weary round. 

Loathing each oft-seen sight, loathing each 
oft-heard sound ! — 



tho' the lips are too tired to speak.' 

Is this Thy answer? Is this the herald of Thy 

p>eace ? 
For the Lotus withers before him, the songs 

of the Sirens cease. 

And the palm-trees and the grottos, fountains 

and streamlets bright. 
Waver and change as he cometh, then fade 

from our weary sight. 

He is worn with care and labor ; he is garbed 

in lowliest guise. 
But we know the firm, sweet mouth, and the 

brave, brave, patient eyes ; 



THORNS AND ROSES. 



689 



And we know the shining lilies — no blooms 

of mortal birth — 
And we know thee, blessed Joseph, in the 

guise that was thine on earth. 

Thy hands are hardened with toil, but they 
have toiled for Him. 

Upon whose bidding waited legions of Sera- 
phim. 

Thy hands have trained to labor the hands of 

Him who made thee. 
Whose strength upbore thy weakness when 

thy awful trust dismayed thee. 

O lift thy hands in appealing for us who, 

unwilling bear [care. 

The burden of God's beloved, lowly labor and 

O pity our fruitless tears to-night, and our 

hearts too tired for prayer. 

kathp:rinf, e. conw.w. 



THE TWO-FOLD MAY. 
Thy merry welcome, rosy May, 

The wild birds all are sweetly singing. 
And every village heart to-day 

Is joyous where thy flowers are springing. 

Oh ! where hast thou been all the year? 

Day-dreaming in thy home of roses.' 
Or swelling youthful hearts anear 

To breathe the sigh that love discloses? 

Full brightly gleams thy robe of green. 

And soft thy young cheek freshly glowing ; 

Tlte wild flowers all proclaim thee Queen 
And crown thy golden tresses flowing. 

Oh ! make thy home no more afar ; 

We'll wreathe thee here a fairy fountain, 
And light it with the evening star. 

When twilight steals adovvn the mountain. 

Remain, the lonely home to cheer — 

Remain, the glooniful path to brighten — 

Remain to dry the mourner's tear. 
And many a weary heart to lighten. 

Ah! sweetest May, whose pleasures bring 
My wandering thoughts to hours long 
perished ; 

Where, oh ! where is my lost Spring— 
The friends I loved, the hopes I cherished ? 



Alas! they come not in the breeze, 
With merry laugh or blowing roses ; 

Nor in the flow'ring orchard tiees. 
Where mute at eve the bird reposes. 



Another May, then, shall I 

Another purer, rarer maiden ; 
My spring-time hopes, ah I she'll renew. 

And soothe this heart with sorrow laden. 

Her songs breathe not the purple wine — 
Her roses bloom to wither never — 

Her joy, her love are not like thine. 
Which please awhile, then pain forever. 

To yonder dome of starry blue. 

Where sweetly dwells this Queen of Ocean, 
Shall hence arise my song anew. 

Shall hence ascend my soul's devotion. 

And She this restless heart of clay 
Will sweetly soothe beyond all other ; 

And She shall be my fadeless May — 
Ma.ry,Jesu's Virgin Mother ! 

PAl'RICK CRONIN. 

THORNS AND ROSES. 
She walked 'mid roses everywhere. 

Her soul was languid with their breath ; 
The faint rich airs that feebly throbbed 

Were sick to most delicious death. 

Thro' heavy lids she caught the sheen 

Of alcoves lit with rubied glow. 
Of dusky glades thick gemmed and flecked 

With budding gold and flowering snow. 

For there the amber rose of youth 
Called down aurora for its guest, 

And there the damask rose of love 
Laid bare the fever of its breast. 

And there the wild dog-rose of hope 
Smiled ever on 'mid sun and shower. 

And there the white rose, passion-blanched. 
Peeped out from many a secret bower. 

And there, in close green draperies veiled. 

The moss-rose blushed with virgin shame ; 
And there the musk-rose of delight 

Breathed forth its heart of white hot flame. 

And as she loitered, bound with spells, 

A blossom here, a leaflet there. 
She plucked with trembling, lusting hands. 

And wreathed them in her spangled hair, 



690 

Till sudden, in a rush of fear. 

She hailed, dazed with pain, new-horn. 
And dumb with awe loo jjreal for Lr\', 

Fell every rose become a thorn. 

On careless brow and golden tress. 

The trickling blood-drops left a stain. 
And swift, tierce shafts of agony 

Shot through and through her reeling brain 

Down sunk on unaccustomed knees, 
She wept, she writhed. — and last — she 
prayed, 

" Help. God I ah help my short sweet youth. 
Scarce budding, doomed in tears to fade! 

" Help. I,ord I no pain was e'er like mine! " 
Then stirred the forest's s(>mbre wings. 

And strange cool winds came wandering by. 
And far-off sounds of healing springs. 

A silver glon," smote the shade. 

And pierced the curtains of her eyes. 
And lo ! before her shone the face 

Of One more fair than halcyon skies. 

" Wouldst thou," — a voice fell soft and sad, 

" Wear only roses on thy head. 
When I. thy King, for thee have worn 

The sharpest thorns of earth instead ? " 

She looked, she saw the gouts of l.lood. 

She saw the cruel crown of scorn ; [wear 
"Dear Christ! " she sobbed, "grant I may 

Till death, what Thou for me ha.st worn." 

Nay. 'twas no dream — as yet she knelt. 

His smile with radiance flushed the gloom. 
And on her brow, for every thorn. 

She felt a rose of Sharon bloom. 



MOK.IL AM) Klil.IGIOVS /'OEMS. 



His ways are secret, like the hidden seed : 
Hut lo ! in perfect flower and ripened car. 

We k now H is ways are ways of Love indeed ! 
It was His smile that gave the sunshine birth, 

The shadow was the brooding of His wing; 
.And lo! from sun and shade, the teeming 
earth, 

Ripened by Him for man's rich harvesting ! 

He came on earth, and sowed the seeds 0/ 

Faith : ears ; 

Blind were our eyes and deaf our ingrate 

In love. He sowed them in the grave of Death, 

And watered them with His compassionate 

tears. 

Spring in our hearts, seeds of immortal Youth ! 

Burst into flower. O seeds that cannot die ! 

Open the wide-leaved blossoms of your truth, 

God-planted seeds of Immortality ! 
Death cannot crush you with his cruel foot : 
But. sheltered by the shadow of His wing. 
The seed shall pass to flower, the flower to 
' fruil. [ing! 

' RilK'ncd by Death for God's grand harvest- 

SAMIKL K. COWAN. 



BEYOND THE SNOW. 
Hare boughs ; athwart each suppliant arm 

The sun's pale stare at pale November; 
No autumn's amorous breath to warm 

His last red leaf's expiring ember ; 
House after house, a glimmering street ; 
.\ herald grain of coming sleet : 
The struggling dayfire's lessening glow; 
Hour when light ghost-winds wailing go. 

When men least hope and most remember. 
Before the snow, before the snow. 



Now once agam. in bask and bower. 
The roses swell, the roses burn. 

And she walks on, with singing heart. 
To tell how thorns to roses turn. 

KANNV par: 



HARVEST-TIME. 
The seeds of spring have passed to summer 
flowers : 
The flowers of summer into autumn fruit : 
Heavily hang the golden-freighted bowers; 
The meads bend low beneath Love's ling- 
ering foot. 
The Loril is Love; and lo ! His foot is here: 



.\ village cot ; eyes fiery blue. 

Blithe voice beneath the roof's high rafter, 
Ripe cheek, crisp curls of chestnut hue. 

Quick heart that leaps to love and laughter : 
That feeds on all, from star to sod. 
.•\nd. loving all things, lives in God : 
Light feet borne daily to and fro 
On some sweet errand none may know. 

Swift sped with hopes like wings to waft her 
Along the snow, along the snow 

\ midnight room : the smother'd speech 
Of those that watch with tear-stained faces 

The helpless love-look bent by each 
Who stoops, but speaks not, and embraces 



Love braving Death with that last cry, 
" She is mine, she is mine ; she shall not die !'' 
Then homeward steps returning slow 
To the great tear's unworded woe, 
And many darkened dwelling-places 

Across the snow, across the snow. 

A hollow grave ; and gathered there [not ; 

Strong breaking hearts that bear and break 
Round the closed eyes and lifeless hair 

Life's few that follow and forsake not • 
Tears, the drink-offering to the dead. 
The bruised heart's grape-wine softly shed ; 
Long downward looks ; they will not go, 
They fain would sleep with her below 

In dreamless rest, with those that wake not 
Beneath the snow, beneath the snow. 

A green plot sweet with shade and sound, 
A white porch and a name engraven, 

Where Death unveiled as Love sits crowned 
In garden-lawns with lilies paven; 

And she, a daughter of that land, 

A silent rose in her right hand. 

And in her left a scroll where glow 

Mysteries of might which man shall know 
In Love's warm-shadowed leafy haven 

Beyond the snow, beyond the snow. 

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



NIGHT AFTER HARVEST. 
Hushed are the songs of the reapers. 

And the sheaves of grain are bound ; 
And soft as the dews of twilight 

Falls silence, deep, profound, — 

An odorous, dewy silence 

That haunts the whispering leaves. 
Like a spirit of the moist shadows ; 

And beyond the gathered sheaves. 

Like a white-faced Nun, in Heaven 
Kneels the vestal moon of June, 

But the mist above the harvest 
Kneels whiter than the moon. 

What are ye, ye mystic vapors 

That gleam beyond so fair.' 
Are ye tents where the Master campeth, 

Watching for man with care .' 

Ah, whiter than the moonbeams 
At night are His tents unfurled. 

As He walks through the dewy stubble. 
Guarding the silent world. 



KE. 691 

Yea, where man reaps in day-time 

His white feet walk at night, 
And the slighted straws He gleaneth, 

That waste shall cease, and blight. 

CHARLES J. O'MALLEV. 



FAILURE. 

The Lord. Who fashioned my hands for work- 
Set me a task, and it is not done ; [ing, 

I tried and tried since the early morning. 
And now to westward sinketh the sun ! 

Noble the task that was kindly given 
To one so little and weak as I — 

Somehow my strength could never grasp it. 
Never, as days and years went by. 

Others around me cheerfully toiling. 

Showed me their work as they passed away ; 

Filled were their hands to overflowing. 
Proud were their hearts and glad and gay. 

Laden with harvest spoils they entered 
In at the golden gate of their rest ; 

Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, 
Found their places among the blest. 

Happy be they who strove to help me 
Failing ever in spite of their aid ! 

Fain would their love have borne me onward 
But I was unready and sore afraid. 

Now I know my task will never be finished, 
And when the Master calleth my name. 

The Voice will find me still at my labor. 
Weeping beside it in weary shame. 

With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him. 

And, when He looks for the fruits of years. 
Nothing have I to lay before Him 

But broken efforts and bitter tears. 

Yet when He calls I fain would hasten — 
Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone; 

And I am as weary as though I carried 
A burthen of beautiful work well done. 

I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, 
Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross ; 

And the Lord Who made them so frail and 
feeble 
Maybe will pity their strife and loss. 

ROSA MULHOLLAND. 



692 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



HARVEST HYMN. 
All bounteous Lord of han-est. 

Beneath whose gracious hand 
A thousand hills, rejoicing. 

Spread blessings o'er our land : 
The rlouds above drop fatness. 

The valleys sing below. 
While wave the sheaves, bright golden. 

The streams in gladness flow. 

All praise to Thee. Creator '. 

Thy tender love and pow'r 
Still clothe the grass with verdure. 

With fairest hues the flowr. 
All praise to Thee, Prcser\'cr! 

Thy ceaseless guardian care 
Spreads wide its shade and shelter 

O'er earth, and sea, and air. 
From Thee the dew descended, 

From Thee the gentle rain. 
Thine was the sun that ripcn'd 

Each bending field of grain : 
Thou crownest with thy gladness 

This joyous Autumn-tide ; 
While peace and smiling plenty 

O'er all our homes preside. 

Praise for our labor ended. 

For barn and storehouse fill'd ! 
Praise for the ripe fruits gather'd 

From fields that labor till'd ! 
And when Time's course is over, 

Life's day of travail past. 
May we be safely garner'd 

With Christ's full sheaves at last ! 

WILLI A.M MCILWAIN 



INDICATIONS. 
To the soul that looks abroad 

Through unbiassed heart and senses. 
All is wonder, all is God, 

Settled facts and inferences ; 
Wondrous in what stands revealed 

To the eye of human reason — 
Premises to truths concealed 

In the endless diapason. 

Should the Spirit droop in doubt. 

When its ken no farther reaches. 
While the speaking world without. 

An infinite wisdom preaches.' 
Why pursue effect and cause 

In the fossils and the stratums? 
For, who gives the atoms laws 

Is a Power beyond the atoms. 



Were the sun ne'er veiled from view; 

Earth ne'er into shadow bidden. 
Who'd believe, in yonder blue : 

Hosts of trailing stars lay hidden? 
Were our senses less alloyed ; 

Or our souls more sublimated, 
Might we not in every void 

See His wonders still repeated. 

And. until He deems it meet. 

I To withdraw the veil that sunders. 

1 In the sward, beneath our feci. 

i Have we not exhaustless wonders ! 

I Myriad bells of chaliced flowers 

I Offering up their heart's libations ; 

I Myriad warblers in the bowers 

\ Hymninc; forth their soul-sensations; 

Winds that sweep the mountain heads. 
And in wintry vesture wreathe them, 
Wand'ring down the valley-btds, 
j Spreading summer bloom beneath them ; 

I Rivers hung in icy chains. 
! In the furrows of the mountains 

Touched to life are golden veins — 
Nature's everlasting fountains. 

Waves there are of sacred song. 
Pulsing ever through creation. 
Even amid the worldly throng. 
Seeking true articulation ; 
j Every throb, if understood. 

On some healing mission drifted. 
Pregnant with celestial food. 
j In the hearts to God uplifted. 

] There is science, weak and vain. 

Reason rash and self-deceiving ; 
Here runs nature's wondrous chain. 

Link on link to Him that's weaving. 
Telling souls that pine afar. 

They may. even within an hour. 
Tread on high from star to star. 

As on earth from flower to flower ! 

Wondrous texture ! — warp and woof — 

Still His praise thro" night and day sings; 
Prophets scanned the starrj' roof I 

Could they count His earthly blessings! 
Thou who guidest earth and sun 1 

Thou of power beyond exploring I 
Let me when life's course is run. 

Die believing and adoring. 

JOHN BOYLE. 



THE PENITENT. 693 


LIGHT AND SHADE. 


Then I answered to my spirit. 


I would fain enjoy the sunshine, 


•' If my Master wore the gloom 


Yet the shadow ever falls. 


Ere He won the glory, may 1 


Something dark within, without me. 


Humbly then His part assume: 


Casts it on my prison walls ; 


Still through light and shade press onward, 


Then I questioned with ray spirit. 


With a soul serene and tender, 


• Wherefore is thy day so dim. 


Till the golden bells of heaven 


When God's light is all around thee. 


Ring me in to cloudless splendor. 


And its source is all in Him .' " 


K. .S. BROOKE. 


And my spirit niaketh answer. 


WE WILL PRAISE THEE, 


" Yes. God's light is all on earth. 
Like a river brimming over 
From the fountain of its birth ; 


Great Jehovah ! we will praise Thee, 
Earth and heaven Thy will obey ; 


Spite of all man's aberrations. 

Scathe and sorrow, shame and strife. 


Suns and systems move obedient 
To thy universal sway. 


Like a sunlit sea it ripples 
Ever up the shores of life." 


Deep and awful are thy counsels. 
High and glorious is Thy throne ; 




Reigning o'er Thy vast dominion, 




Thou art God, and Thou alone. 


Then I answered to my spirit. 




••If God's light indeed be so. 


In Thy wondrous condescension. 


Like a fountain in its fullness, 


Thou hast stooped to raise our race ; 


Like a sea-tide in its flow ! 


Thou hast given to us a Saviour 


Then the fault is mine, inherent 


Full of goodness and of grace. 


In this dark and heavy clay, 


By His blood we are forgiven, 


Kneaded up throughout my nature. 


By His intercession free, 


Barring thus the light of day ; 


By His life we rise to glory, 




There to reign eternally. 


Yet the glory, unattainted. 




Rests on all that round us lies. 


God of Power— we bow before Thee ; 


On the lily's silver chalice. 


God of Wisdom — Thee we praise ; 


On the rosebud's crimson dyes. 


God of Love— so kind and tender. 


On the green and flashing billow 


We would praise Thee all our days. 


Bursting all in balls of light, 


Praise to Thee— our Loving Father ; 


On the thousand diamond dewdrops 


Praise to Thee — Redeeming Son; 


Weeping for the parted night." 


Praise to Thee— Almighty Spirit ; 




Praise to Thee -Thou Holy One. 


Then resumed my spirit, - Surely 


lOHX WHITE. 


These things have their shadows too ; 






Time will dim the lily's lustre. 


THE PENITENT. 


Turn to dust the rosebud's hue ; 




Underneath the bright green billow 
Blanch the million bones of men ; 


Within a dark monastic cell 


A monk's pale corpse was calmly laid. 


Come and seek the dew at noon-day. 


Peace on his lips was seen to dwell. 


Will you find its sparkle then ? 


And light above the forehead played. 




Upon the stone beneath his hand 


" Yet God's light is still around us. 


Was found a small and written scroll, 


Shining on with temper'd ray, 


And he whose eye the record scanned 


Through the many mists and sorrows 


From this dim part must guess the whole : 


That obscure His people's way. 




And, bethink vou how the Saviour 


" There comes a thought at dead of night. 


Walked in shadow all His years- 


And bids the shapes of sleep begone. 


Was He not • with grief acquainted Y 


A thought that's more than thought, a sight 


Was He not a ■ man of tears .' ' " 


On which the sun has never shone. 



694 



MORAL AND RELIOIOUS POEMS. 



" A pale, stern face, and sterner far 

Because it is a woman's face; 
It gleams a waning, worn-out star. 

That once was bright with morning grace. 

•' An icy vision, calm and cold. 

The sprite of vanished hours it seems; 
It brings to me the times of old. 

That look like, but that arc not. dreams. 

'• It brings back sorrows long gone by. 

And folly stained, not washed, with tears: 
Years fall away like leaves and die, — 

And life's bare bony stem appears. 

•• Dark face ! Thou art not all a shade 

That fancy bids beside me be ; 
That blood, that once in {>assion played 

Thro' my young veins, beat high for thee. 

" Now changed and withered all I My sighs 
Round thee have breathed a sicklier air, 

And sad before my saddening eyes 
Thou showest the hues of my despair. 

" Still, prayers are strong, and God is good ; 

Man is not made for endless ill. 
Dear sprite! my soul's tormented mood 

Was yet a hope thou canst not kill. 

•■ Repentance clothes in grass and flowers 
The grave in which the past is laid : 

And close to faith's old minster towers. 
The cross lights up the ghostly shade. 

•■ Around its foot the shapes oi tear. 

Whose eyes my weaker heart appall. 
As sister suppliants thrill the ear 

With cries that loud for mercy call. 

'• Thou, God. wilt hear! Thy pangs are meartt 

To heal the spirit, not destroy ; 
And fiends from hell for vengeance sent. 

When thou commandest. work for joy." 

Jt)HN SIERLING. 



THE INNER LIFE. 
Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, 
Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art 

not. 
Till brows were on the fret and eyes grew hot 
And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly ; 
Then thro' the temple-door I slipfted to free 



My soul from secret ache in solitude, 

And sought this brook ; and, by the brookside 

stood [me. 

The world's Liglit. and the Light and Life of 
It is enough, O Master! Speak no word, 
The stream speaks, and the endurance of the 

sky 
Outpasses speech : I seek not to discern 
Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred ; 
Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie, 
.\nd let the musing soul within me burn. 

KDWARI) DOWDEN. 



PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. 
Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps 

Within the rose's fragrant bed. 
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps 

The turf where all we loved is laid : 
But far more pure, more dear than they. 
The tear that washes guilt away. 

Sweet is the morning's balmy breath 
Along the valley's flowery side. 

And lovely, on the moonlit heath. 
The lute's soft tone complaining wide ; 

But still more lovely, sweeter still. 

The sigh that wails a life of ill. 

Bright is the morning's roseate- gleam 
Upon the mountains of the East, 

And soft the moonlight's silver^' beam 
Above the billow's placid rest ; 

But, O. what ray ere shone from heaven 

Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven ! 

IAMK.S J. CALLANAN. 



MEETING THE DEAD. 

When thou dost meet the dead. 

Pass with uncovered head. 
The Conqueror of Kings is on the road ; 

.And one day we all must 

Bow down unto the dust 
Before this mighty Messenger of God. 

He is no enemy 

To injure thine or thee. 
But a good friend in God's great mercy sent 

To open the last door 

That doth to life restore. 
The pardoned to take back from punishment. 



FROM SORROW'S DEPTHS. 



695 



Had we still kept the road 

We walked on once with God. 
Death liad no call to come amongst us here ; 

Life then had ever been 

One long unfolding scene 
Of joy — ^without a trouble or a tear. 

But when the fatal Fall 

Had so defaced us all 
That God's fair image passed away from men. 

Then come to us Death must. 

To crush us back to dust. 
That God might make us like himself again. 

He knows how wear)- we 

Of ruined life would be ; 
The wild heart beating at its prison bars. 

Even in their decay. 

Still strong enough to stay 
Its upward flight to worlds beyond the stars. 

Therefore He did us send 

Death as a kindly friend. 
The cage to open, let the bird go free ; 

Outside of the Pearl-gate 

In Paradise to wait. 
Until its body shall repaired be. 

And that, in its repair. 

It perfectly might wear 
The fashion in which first it had been made, 

The Maker, to re-make. 

Upon Himself did take 
His once fair image, now so sin-decay 'd : 

Then unto Death His brow 

The Lord of Life did bow, [away ; 

That He might take from Death its sting 

And from the Grave that He 

Might take its victory, 
Bruis'd head and broken heart did in it lay. 

That, what the First Man spoiled, 

The Second might, unsoil'd 
And pure and perfect, from the dust revive ; 

That, as in Adam all. 

Died through the fatal Fall. 
So m the Christ might all be made alive. 

Then, when thou meet'st the dead. 

Pass with uncovered head, [rest 

And breathe a prayer, that the dear soul at 

May, in the holy place. 

Grow on in every grace 
Here left imperfect, even in the best. 



And that — not death — but Sleep. 

Death's Christian name, may keep 
That worn-out body safe in sacred ground ; 

Until the morning when 

Jesus shall come again. 
And all His jewels shall by Him be found: 

Until that morning break. 

Until the sleepers wake, 
And rise to meet their Saviour in the air; 

Until His sacred trust 

Death render from the dust [fair. 

To Christ, in Christ re-fashioned fresh and 

Then will Death wearied lie 

Down at Christ's feet and die. 
That Life alone infinity may fill; 

The ver)' life of Death 

On to its parting breath 
Only to know, and do the Father's will. 

J. S. B. .MONSELL. 



FROM SORROW'S DEPTHS. 
From sorrow's depths to Thee I cry. 

O Thou, who knowcst my inmost fear; 
Th' unuttered prayer, the half-breathed sigh. 

Now let it reach Thy pitying ear. 

Unworthy as I am, from Thee 

My soul with hope shall mercy claim. 

For Thou hast made me — Thou canst see. 
With mercy, crimes which man would blame. 

If Thou should 'st mark with eye severe 
Thy children's fault's, ah ! who could stand.' 

Ah ! who with boldness could appear, 
Or bless his God's creating hand.' 



Despair might then, with impious voice. 
Mock the vatn tears of penitence, 

Ar.d curse existence — not his choice — 
Sad boon of free Omnipotence. 

But mercy ever dwells with Thee. 

Still to forgiveness Thou art prone ! 
That all with fearful hearts may flee. 

And find their refuge near Thy Throne. 

On Thee; with humble confidence. 

My suffering soul for peace shall wait, 
Thy love shall comfort speak, and hence 

Thy word my hopes shall animate. 



696 

The languid sufferer. dfx>nied to weep. 

While painful nights their course delay. 
Hopeless of sweet, refreshing sleep. 

Not more desires the mornine ray. 



Than this f>oor, harassed, troubled soul 
Hath watched for inly-whispered peace. 

Till mercy shall its fears control 
And hiiJ its anxious sorrows cease. 

And still at mercy's sacred seat. 

Let all Thy children. Lord, lie found : 
For love is there, and at Thy feet 

Consoling hopes and joys are found. 

MARV TIGHE. 



TRUST. 
With strength of righteous purpose in-lhj 

heart. 
What cause to fear for consequence of deed ? 
God guideth then, not we ; nor do we need 
To care for aught but that we play our part. 
Most simple trust is often highest art 
The issue we would fly may be a seed 
Ordained by God to bear our souls a meed 
Of peace that no self-judging could impart. 
" All things work good for him who trusteth 

God :■• 

Doth God not love us with a longing love 
To make us happy, and hath He not sight 
From end to end of our short earthly road ? — 
This Lord! I hold, aye knmu — that Thou 

would St move 
The world to lead one trusting soul aright. 

EUWAKU HARUINO. 



MORAL A.\D KELIGIOU^ POEMS. 



THE PRODIGALS. 

Clasp hands awhile and" pray I 

What is it we would say ? 
The aching of our hearts what words can case : 

World-worn of soul and sere. 

What wind has blown us here. 
Tossing these many days on stormy seas? 

Come, let us beat the breast 1 
Where shall our souls find rest. 
Unhappy toilers of the land and sea? 
Haggard, and gaunt, and brown. 
We wander up and down — 



All clad in garments white 

We stole forth in the night. 
Plying His house wherein we knew no fear — 

Poor beggars, wan and worn. 

Of raiment soiled and torn. [dear? 

Who now would know us as His children 

Father, we loved Thee not I 

I'ngrateful, we forgot 
Thy wordsof love and life. Thy fostering hand ; 

But though no words will come, 

And quivering lips are dumb. 
Wilt Thou not surely know and understand? 

Blind fools to blind desires. 

Misled by wandering fires, [sweet: 

, We held ourselves from nothing that was 
I To Thee we gave no thought. 

We counted Thee as nought; [feet. 
All dark and wicked ways have known our 

Out of these evil ways. 

Out of these empty days, 
What now remaineth worthy to be kept? 

From us the morn has past, 

The noontide fled as fast. I 

And night fell darkly on us as we slept. 

The joys that were so vain, 

The pleasures that were pain 
Pass, nor is left us the poor gift of tears. 

Lol we confess our sin — 

That we have dwelt therein ! — 
Wilt Thou receive us after all these years? 

Our weakness is our own. 

Our strength from Thee alone. 
Oh I help us, that we faint not in the way! 

Loose not the avenging sword. 

Nor send Thou forth. O Lord I 
The arrows of Thy justice, strong to slay! 

Turn not from us Thy face ! 

Our guilt deserves no grace ; 
But show Thy mercy rather than Thy power; i 

Close not on us the gate — 1 

Let it not be too late. ' 

Though thus we turn at the eleventh hgur. 

We have gone here and there. 
And fallen in every snare. 
In perilous places have our lives been cast; 
Sad heart and empty hand. 
All desolate we stand- 



Where shall we hide, or whither shall we fiee? Rut Thou. O Father! lead 



at last. 



THE RAINBOW OF HOPE. 



69; 



May we not call Thee thus, 

Who gave so much for us. 
For whom Thy well-beloved lived and died? 

Our sins are black as night ; 

We wither in Thy sight — 
Have mercy for His sake, the Crucified. 

O Merciful and Just ! 

In Thee we humbly trust. 
And low we bend beneath Thy chastening 
rod. 

The while, in hope and fear. 

Up from these dwellings drear j 

Rises our cry, " Be pitiful. O God ! " 

ARTHUR O'KEEFE. 



When the soul, in adoration. 

Prostrate lies before the throne, 
Words may never, never utter 

What the spirit breathes alone; 
Other ear may never listen. 

Other eye may never see ; 
What the twilight silence covers. 

Lies between thv God and thee I 



JULI.5 



M. KIRCHHOFFER. 



THE RAINBOW OF HOPE. 
It is hope that creates the aurora of bliss. 

On the hills of futurity gleaming, [this, 

To attract weary man thro' a bleak world like 

Where happiness lives but in seeming; 



SILENCE. 
Who hath not felt the sacred hours 

Of stillness and of calm. 
When silence is more musical 

Than noblest chant or psalm ; 
When words are like the rippling wave 

That dies upon the shore. 
While the great ocean-depth of soul 

Lies voiceless evermore: 



When a spirit loved and loving 

Hath run out its mortal race. 
And the soul in radiance rising 

Drops its mantle on the face. 
When a gleam of heaven's glory 

On the marble brow is seen. 
All is solemn hush and silence. 

Where the voice of God hath been : 



When the gentle moon arising 

From the dark mysterious sea. 
Shedding o'er its troubled waters 

Rays of peace and purity — 
Casts a path of silver glory. 

That trembles in the wind. 
As though an angel-host had passed. 

And left their track behind : 

When the full-toned organ swelling, 

Poureth forth its music tide. 
Sweeping past the clustered pillars, 

Down along the minster wide 
Thrilling the raptured listener 

With a sudden rush of song, — 
Then the spirit, crushed with beauty. 

Sinks in silence, deep and long: 



I For when Man was expelled from llie garden 
i of love. 

While happiness saw and forsook him. 
And innocence fled to the angels above, 

Hope pitied the pilgrim and took him. 

The sharp-piercing thorn and the thistle are 

spread 
j Where the outcast of Eden reposes ; 

But hope makes the pillow so soft to his head 
I That he slumbers, and dreams but of roses. 

He awakens to woe, but she wipes off the 
tears 

That are sadly, though silently stealing. 
And points to a day, thro' the vista of years. 

The Holy and Just One revealing. 

When the rainbow appeared, dove-eyed mercy 
was there 

To soften each hue that arrayed it ; 
'Twas a beacon of joy in a land of despair, 

And Hope was the angel that made it. 

Man wistfully gazed, and his grief-stricken 
j heart 

I Was soothed into such resignation, 
j The tear that had gathered forgot to depart, 
I For Joy was infused through creation. 

And hence while fond hope leads us on through 
life's way. 

Though still disappointed with sorrow 
We sweeten our cup of affliction to-day 

With the bliss we reserve for to-morrow. 

JOHN HUGHES. 



MOKAI. .l.V/> A'£U<J/OL-S J'OEM^i. 



MARY MAGDALEN. \ 

To the hall of that feast came the sinful and 

fair. 
She heard in the city that Jesus was there ; 
She marked not the splendor that blazed on 

their board. 
But silently knelt at the feet of tiie Lord. 

The hair from her forehead, so sad and so I 

meek. 
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burned on her j 

cheek : I 

.And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame. 
1 1 seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame. 

The frown and the murmur went round • 

through them all. | 

1 hat one so unhallowed should tread in that 

hall , 
And some said the poor would be objects rpore 

meet 
For the wealth of the perfumes she showered 

on His feet. 

She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in 

sighs, 
She dared not look up to the heaven of His 

eyes; 
y\nd the hot tears gushed forth at each heave 

of her breast, 
.As her lips to His sandal were throbbingly 

pressed. 

On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the 
bow. 

In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the 
snow. 

He looked on that lost one — her sins were for- 
given. 

And Mar)- went forth in the beauty of Heaven. 

JAMKS J. CALLANAN. 



THE GARDEN SEPULCHRE. 
Into a garden, at the dawn of day. 
I hastened. Tlowers bright with dewy bloom 
Were round me. All within was fresh and gay. 
When suddenly I came ufKjn a tomb. 

And, shuddering, turned away. 
" Must man be ever minded of his doom, 

E'en in his hours of mirth ? 
Garden, thou art a fitting type of earth 

Whose flowers hide decay — 
Farewell to thee, farewell ! " 



But in the evening some mysterious spell 
Drew me unto that garden-tomb again. 

Just ere the sun had set. 
I found a great stone rolled against the door; 
The sepulchre was empty now no more. 
A little group of mourners, too. I met. 

As they dej)arted 

Broken-hearted : 
While such a scent of spices filled the air 
That much I maaxlled who was sleeping there. 

Just then I found 
A superscription fallen on the ground : 

.And read, with deep surprise, 
The name and royal title of a king. — 
" A monarch " buried in such lowly guise! 

But all surmise 

To me was vain. 
Startled by flutter of a wild bird's wing. 

Which, in the awful solemnnoss around. 
Seemed a mysterious and ghostly thing, 

I lifted up mine eyes. 

And lo! their glance fell on 
A man unaged, but of most reverend mien ; 
A face more mournful I had never seen. 

I ventured to draw near^ 
" Sir," I implored, " who is the sleeper here ? " 
The superscription in his hand I placed ; 
With awe 1 watched him while the words he 

traced. 
" It is their King, whom they have crucified," 
With grief and indignation he replied. 
Then, adding gently that his name was John, 
On a low root all overgrown with moss 
He made me rest beside him while he told 
The wondrous story of Christ's life on earth. 
From the great glories of His bi/th 
Unto the latest anguish of the Cross, 
To which He had been sold. 

He talked until the moonbeams fell 
Around us. When in a pause 
I watched a muffled mourner sadly creep 
L'p thro' the olives. "See! onecomestoweep," 
I murmured softly. " Yea, and he hath cause," 
He answered. And a bitter wailing cry 

Upon the air arose ; 

" .Alas ! and did I on this day deny 

My Lord about to die, — 
To Thee more cruel even than Thy foes? " 

John sadly told me then, " I now must hasten 
To comfort her whom God doth sorely chasten, 
To whom this day Christ gave me as a son 
His mother: 



THE UN FOUND. 



But how shall I replace the Holy One ? " 
I cried, " One moment stay; 

Methinks this shepherd of the sheep, 
Whom death did obey. 

Is far too great for death to keep. 

Thou hast three resurrections seen 
Where Christ hath been. 

And with the morn thou shall behold another 

Greater than that of Lazarus, Mary's brother." 

ANNA KLIZABETH HAMILTON. 



BLEST BE THAT STRAIN. 
Oh ! if the atheist's words be true. — 

If those we seek to save. 
Sink, and in sinking from our view. 

Are lost bey.jnd the grave ! — 
If life thus closed, how dark and drear 
Would this bewildered earth appear, — 

Scarce worth the dust it gave : 
A tract of black, sepulchral gloom. 
One yawning, ever-opening tomb. 

Blest be that strain of high belief. 
More heaven-like, more sublime. 
Which says that souls that part in grief, 

Part only for a time! — 
That far beyond this speck of pain. 
Far o'er the gloomy grave's domain. 

There spreads a brighter clime. 
Where — care, and toil, and trouble o'er — 
Friends meet, and meeting weep no more. 

THOMAS FURLONG. 



THE PASSING BELL. 
With measured pause and long drawn wail. 
The minster bell swings on the gale. 
And saddens the vale with its solemn toll — 
That passeth away like a passing soul — 
Pulse after pulse still diminishing on. 
Till another rings forth for the dead and gone. 

The minute-sound of that mourning bell 

Is the lord's of the valley — the rich man's 

knell; 
While it swells on his lawns and his wood- 
lands bright. 
He breathes not, hears not, nor sees the 

light ; 
On the couch of his ease he lies stifTand wan — 
In the midst of his pomp he is dead and gone. 



699 



The pride has passed from his haughty brow — 
Where are his plans and high projects now.' 
Another lord in his state is crowned, 
To level his castles with the ground ! 
Respect and terror pass reckless on — 
His frowns and favors are dead and gone. 

Had he wisdom, and wealth, and fame. 
Mortal tongue shall forget his name ; 
Other hands shall disperse his store — 
Earthly dream shall he dream no more, 
His chair is vacant — his way lies on — 
To the formless cells of the dead and gone. 

Passing bell that dost sadly fling 

The wailing wave on the air of spring. 

There is no voice in thy long wild moan, 

To tell where the parted soul is flown, 

To what far mansion it travels on. 

While thou tollest thus for the dead and gone. 

Yet, bell of death, on the living air 

Thy notes come bound from the house of 

prayer — 
They speak of the valley of darkness trod. 
On a path once walked by the Son of God, 
Whose word of promise inviteth on. 
Through the gate unclosed for the dead and 

gone. 

JAMES WILLS. 



THE UNFOUND. 
When youth and youthful dreams are fair, 

And lovely blooms the tender cheek ; 
When softly waves the sunny hair. 

And eyes tell more than words can speak ; 
Why does the young heart restless sigh. 
And pine beneath its native sky? 
And wish for other years to come. 
And long to other climes to roam? 

But when those riper j'ears appear. 

All blooming, like the golden grain ; 
When loving hearts and friends are near. 

To chase afar each brooding pain ; — 
Ah, still why heaves the lonely breast. 
Sighing for future years of rest. 
In hope that joys may meet it yet 
In the calm eve of life's sunset?— 

Yet when that eve falls softly down. 
That turns to mist the eagle eye. 

And frosted grow those tresses brown. 
And youthful fancies droop and die, — 



MOKAL A.\D JiEUGIOUS POEMS. 



Why pensive grows the withered check ? 
Why would the sad heart fondly speak 
Of youth, and joys, and friends that once 
Were dear in life's first innocence? 

I Ah, Lord I 'tis that the soul still craves 

I Some unfound pleasure earth ne'er gives ; 

It dreams and seeks, then sickens, raves 
O'er the fair phantom, and thus lives : 

At rosy morn 'tis found at noon ; 

At noon 'twill smile with evening's moon. 
j Till, cheated thus at every stage. 

The sad heart pines from youth to age. 

Earth's treasures, youth and beauty, fade ; 
Even love's young dream but cheats a while; 

Beyond life's sea is the fadeless glade. 
' Our Aiden home, where angels smile. 
; .■\h I when we reach that deathless shore. 

Nor change, nor care can touch us more : — 
I There to the ravished heart appears 

The unfound joy of earthly years. 

! PAIRICK. CKOMN. 

I ----- 

; INGRATITUDE. 

' That old. old story, known without the learn- 

By souls on earth to-day :- [ing. 

! Ten lepers cleansed, and only one returning. 

To Christ his thanks to pay. 

God snowers upon us all His choicest blessing. 

We only crave for more ; 
As though a perfect right wc were possessmg 

To goods from Heaven's store ! 

Oh, would we dare do thus at any portal 

Even of friend most true? 
Then unto God. eternal and immortal. 

Why is it thus wc do? 

Methinks that, glancing back o'er years 
Of youth or hoary age. [dei)arte<|. 

Of joyful hours or hours spent heavy-hearted. 
On Life's deep-written page 

Will glow hereafter in the vault of Heaven. 

Like stars — some great, some small ; 
The graces, oft unheeded. God has given 

In Love to one and all. 

An>^ still the Saviour cries in voice of yearnmg. 
I Thrilling with love divine, 

I ■' Ten did I cleanse, one only is returning — 
Where are the other nine? " 

.MARG.\KtT t. JDRDAN. 



A PENITENT. 
Years, long years have passed and perished 

since I last this pathway trod, 
Since I humbly knelt in prayer within the 
I earthly house of God 

Years I've spent in fruitless worship at how 

many an empty shrine! — 
Knowledge, power, fame, love, riches — these 

the things I deemed divine. 
Come I now all faint and weary to this olden 

fane again ; 
Not alone, for ever with me moveth memor\''s 

shadowy train. 
Haunting me daily and nightly — even in the 
• house of prayer 

They come with nie to the altar — they kneel 

beside me there. 
Seen through the floating incense — heard 

thro' the organ's tone. 
Come back dear faces and voices from days 

that are dead and gone. 

•' Gloria in Excelsis" rings thro' the arching 

dome. 
Like the song of exulting angels bearing ran- 
somed spirits home. 
Once how my heart leaped upward with that 

triumphant strain : 
IMow, alas ! it sinks back to earth with but a 

crj- of pain. 
.As I think of the days I have wasted — of the 

good that 1 have not done 
Of the evil I turned not away from ; of the 

follies I would not shun ; 
Of the idle dreams that I nurtured ; of the 

days and nights I have passed 
Prayerlcss. faithless, godless. — wean,- and sick 

at the last I 

for the care-free heart of my youtn — O for 

the innocent years 
When my soul was unsoiled by passion and 

my eyes undimmed by tears. 
When in the convent garden, walking amid 

the flowers, 

1 dreamed fair dreams of the future thro' the 

long sunny hours. [tide. 

Or in the convent chapel, kneeling at even- 
1 saw with the eyes of the spirit, forms of the 

glorified ; 
When the mild Madonna smiled on me. thro' 

clouds of incense dim, 
And the breath of the roses blended with the 

tones of the Vesper hymn. 



SA/XT BRIGID. 



701 



" Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus," lo I every head 
is bowed, 

While the grand prayers of the Fatliers go up 
from the kneeling crowd. 

What do we here, O sinful heart, let us leave 
this sacred scene. 

Let us go out to the world again, — we are un- 
clean, unclean. 

Let us take up the faded roses, let us drink 
of the vapid wine, - 

Still set on high the human love, — we ha\c 
trampled the Divine ! 

Hark! like an answer from Heaven, biddin.; 

despair to cease 
One sweet voice breathes through the silent 

air. — "Lamb of God, give us peace." 
Give peace unto me, O Merciful One. I knock 

at thy temple gat 
Answer me not in those saddest words. "Too 

late, lost soul, too late." 
Dark is the sky above me, — lonely the path I 

tread 
Cold are the hearts of the living, silent the 

lips of the dead 
In the ways of sin I have wandered long, and 

the night is falling fast. 
Wilt thou take the wreck of a wasted life— wilt 

Thou bear me home at last } 

ANNA T. WILSON. 



THE BURDEN OF THE DAY. 
Oh ! when we face some trying hour before us. 

And feel the press of care on everj' side ; 
Behold the sky of life storm-clouded o'er us. 

And hear the rolling, rumbling, ebblesstide 

Of wearing daily toil that never ceases. 
Dulling the soul with its monotony ; — 

When hope dies out, and gloom of heart in- 
creases — [Thee, 
Oh! then, dear Lord, if we would cr>' to 

.\nd (toiling still at some appointed labor) 
In spirit rest upon Thy Sacred Heart, 

Lo ! Calvary, Thou wouldst change for us to 
Tabor 
And of our burdens bear the hea\'y part. 

But no ; in every petty tribulation 
The soul unceasingly complains and frets ; 

In peace learns how to wrestle with tempta- 
tion, [gets. 
And when it comes, the lesson learned for- 



Why this lament : "We've no time for devo- 
tion .' " 
With pure intention work becomes a prayer ; 
Each trying thought worth more than sweet 
emotion. 
Each weary step a shining heavenward stair ! 

MAKGARKT E. JORDAN. 



SAINT BRIGID. 
'Mid dewy pastures girdled with blue air, 

Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink. 

Thro' violet-purpled woods of green Kildare, 

Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's 

brink, 

O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet 

In days of old on breezy morns and eves 
Wandered thro' labyrinths of sun and shade, 
Thy face so innocent-sweet 
Shining with love that neither joys nor 
grieves 
Save as the angels, meek and holy maid ! 

With white fire in thy hand that burned no 
man 
But cleansed and v%rarmed where'er its ray 
might fall. 
Nor ever wasted low nor needed fan. 

Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees 
tall. 
There thou didst chant thy vespers while each 
star 
Grew brighter listening through the leafy 
screen. 
Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes 
soft. 

His music near or far. 
Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green 
To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft. 

And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st 
by night 
To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen. 
To tend the shrine-lamps with thy flambeau 
white 
And set thy tender footprints in the green. 
Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure 

As tho' the loves of angels were their theme ; 

Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires 

With heats that still endure ; 

Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam. 

From thy dear mindfulness that never tires ! 

ROSA MULHOLLAND. 



■J02 



MOKAL AXn RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



SAINT ACNES. 
With modest courage, eyes undimmed by 

tears. 
She stood before the tyrant in his might. 
Her martyr-soul prepared for that high flight 
Which soars above all earthly craven fears; 
A fair child crowned with thirteen golden 

years. 
Her rapt gaze fixed as on the vision bright 
Of her Love's glory breaking on her sight. 
She heeded not the soldiers' savage jeers; 
She heard the Bridegroom's mystic whisper- 
ing. 
So sad. so sweet, as if from Calvary's height. 
And Calvary's shadow touched her soul's 

bright wing 
And in her virgin wreath she longed to twine 
The crimson passion-flower with lilies white. 
And shining roses, for her spouse Divine. 

HELENA CALLANAN. 



It 



ON A PICTURE OF ST. AGNES, 
i but a simple picture, just above my table 



rcstmg, — 
Child-like face upturned in longing to the 
promise of the skies. 
With a something like to sadness the sweet 
lips and forehead cresting, 
.■\nd a look of heaven dwelling in the beauti- 
ful dark eyes ; — [story, 
1 1 is but a simple picture, yet it tells a hallowed 
Brighter, purer for the record sin's revolving 
cycles show. 
Speaking to my thoughts — all human, -with 

its own unshadowed glory. 
Of a heart that loved and suffered fifteen 
hundred years ago. 

Not as we love, blindly stretching forth our 
hands in weak endeavor 
To hold fast what God has branded with the 
brittle stamp of clay ; [forever 

.Not as we, unwilling, suffer, moaningchildishly 
The defeat of an ambition born and buried 
in a day ; 
But as they love whom His brightness has 
encompassed with its shining. 
Who have waited through the noontide in 
the shadow of the Cross, 
Sharing in His crucifixion, with prophetic gift 
divining 
In earth's short-lived compensations 
Heaven's irreparable loss. 



Daughter of a race of heroes, stranger to the 
touch of sorrow. 
Free as snow-flakes in their falling from the 
tainted breath of sin, 
Her young life had reached its fullness, each 
(lay promise of the morrow. 
If the golden gates of Heaven had not 
yearned to take her in ;— 
If the dove had not descended where the 
haughty eagle flaunted 
Its black wings above the threshold of her 
proud patrician home. 
Those pale lips had neverspoken, clear, defiant 
and undaunted, 
Their own doom of death and torture in the 
halls of pagan Rome. 

"Tear that white robe from her shoulders!" 

Tyrant mandates know not pity ; — 
Droops she, clothed in her own blushes — could 

there garments be more fair ? 
Lol downfallen from its fast'nings, before all 

that mighty City. 
.She stands mantled and enshrouded in the 

glory of her hair I 
Then, as swift beneath the sword-flash streams 

the life-blood gently gushing. 
The red current over-flowing bathes her 

whiteness in its sea, — 
.Maidens, cease your lender weeping, all your 

anguished sobs be hushing, 
Pain is but a dream forever, and the martyr's 

soul is free ! 

Fifteen hundred years have followed one by 
one in sad procession. 
Since the sun set over Tiber on that bar- 
barous holiday; 
Fifteen h'-ndred waves of passage in the tide 
of retrogression 
Flowing to the shore eternal from the world 
it wears away ! 
Creatures of our own poor moulding, seeking 
ever an ideal. 
Weaving all a soul's best promise into oull 
and senseless rhymes. 
Could our thoughts but seek the treasure, 
might our hands but clasp the real. 
What were death, or pain, or torture, fifteen 
hundred thousand times .' 

O thou beautiful St. .Agnes ! when my heart 
grows sick or wean,-. 
Tiring of the toil and struggle, throbbmg at 
the touch of pain, 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 



There is never hour so hopeless, there is never 
day so dreary. 
But the face upturned to Heaven can enliven 
it again. 
For mine eyes are not so blinded that they 
cannot see the shining 
Of illimitable brightness in the pathway of 
the Cross, 
And my soul is not so narrow that its faith is 
past divining 
In earth's short-lived compensations 
Heaven's irreparable loss. 

MARY F.. M.WNIX. 



THE TESTAMENT OF ST. ARBOGAST. 
St. Arbogast, the bishop, lay 

On his bed of death in Strasburg Palace, 
And, just at the dawn of his dying day. 

Into his own hands took the chalice; 
And, praying devoutly, he received 

The blessed Host, and thus address 'd 
His chapter who around him grieved. 

And sobbing, heard his last request. 

Quoth he ; — " The sinful man you see 

Was born beyond the western sea. 

In Ireland, whence, ordain'd, he came, 

In Alsace, to preach in Jesus' name. 

There, in my cell in Hagueneau, 

Many unto the One I drew ; 

There fared King Dagobert one day. 

With all his forestrie array. 

Chasing out wolves and beasts unclean, 

As I did errors from God's domain ; 

The king approached our cell, and he 

Esteem'd our assiduity: 

And, when the bless'd St. Amand died. 

He called us to his seat and sighed. 

And charged us watch and ward to keep 

In Strasburg o'er our Master's sheep. 

' Mitre of gold we never sought 

Cope of silver to us was nought — 

Jewel'd crook and painted book 

We disregarded, but, perforce, took. 

Ah ! oft in Strasburg's cathedral 

We sighed for one rude cell so small. 

And often from the bishop's throne j 

To the forest's depths we would have flown. 

But that on» duty to Him who made us 

His shepherd in this see, forbade us. I 

" And now "—St. Arbogast spoke slow 
But words were firm, tho' voice was low — j 



"God doth require His servant hence. 
And our hope is His omnipotence. 
But bury me not, dear brethren, with 
The pomp of torches or music, sith 
Such idle and unholy slate 
Should ne'er on a Christian bishop wait ;- 
Leave cope of silver and painted book 
Mitre of gold and jewel'd crook 
Apart in the vestry's darkest nook ; 
But in Mount Michael bury mc. 
Beneath the felon's penal tree- 
So Christ our Lord lay at Calvary. 
This do, as ye my blessing prize. 
And God keep you pure and wise I " 
These were the words, they were the last. 
Of the blessed Bishop Arbogast. 

THOM.XS L)'.\RCV M'GEE. 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
She once was a lady of honor and wealth. 
Bright glow'd on her features the roses of 

health ; 
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold. 
And her motion shook perfume from every 

fold; 
Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her 

side. 
And gay was her smile as the glance of a 

bride ; 
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding 

hall. 
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent 

de Paul. 

She felt, in her spirit, the summons of grace. 
That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; 
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of 

home. 
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, " I 

come." 
She put from her person the trappings of pride, 
And pass'd from her home with the joy of a 

bride. 
Nor wept at the threshold as onward she 

moved, 
For her heart was on fire in the cause it 

approved. 

Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost. 

That beauty that once was the song and the 

toast. 
No more in the ball room that figure we meet. 
But gliding at dusk to the wretch s retreat. 



704 



MORAL AXD RELIC IOCS rOEMS. 



Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, 
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth. 
For she barters (or heaven the glory of earth. 

Those feet, that to music could gracefully 

move. 
Now bear her alone on the mission of love; 
Those hands that once dangled the perfume 

and gem 
Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; 
That voice that once echod the song of the 

vain. 
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; 
And the hair that was shining with diamond 

and pearl. 
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 

Her down-bed — a pallet : hertrinkets — ahead : 
Her lustre— one taper that serves her to read ; 
Her sculpture— the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; 
Her paintings — one print of the thorn-crowned 

head ; 
Hir cushion — the pavement that wearies her 

knees: 
Her music— the psalm, or the sigh of disease : 
The delicate lady lives mortified there, 
.And the feast is forsaken for fasting and 

prayer. 

Vet not to the ser\ice of heart and of mind 
.Are the cares of that heaven minded virgin, 

confined. I 

Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of [ 

grief I 

.She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief; 
She strengthens the weary, she comforts the | 

weak, 
.And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 
Where want and affliction on mortals attend. 
The Sister of Charity tlure is a friend. i 

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his 

breath. 
Like an angel she moves 'mid the vajxjr of 

death ; 
Where rings the loud musket and flashes the 

sword . 
fnfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord, i 
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- 1 

tainted face 
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; 
How kindly she dresses each sutTering limb, i 
For she sees in the wounded the iniageof Him. 



Behold her. ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and 

pain ; [your days. 

Who yield up to pleasure your nights and 
F'orgetful of ser\icc. forgetful of praise. 
Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men. — 
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen. 
How stands in the balance your eloquence 

weighed (maid ? 

With the life and the deeds of that high-born 

GKKALU GKIFFI.N. 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 
Sister of Charity, gentle and dutiful. 

Loving as seraphim, tender and mild. 
In humbleness strong and in purity beautiful. 

In spirit heroic, in manners a child. 
Ever thy love like an angel reposes 

With hovering wings o'er the sufferer here. 

Till the arrows of death are half hidden in 

OSes. [bier. 

And hope-sf>eaking prophecy smiles on the 

When life, like a vapor, is slowly retiring. 

As clouds in the dawning to heaven uprollcd. 
Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him expir- 
ing. 
And the cross on thy bosom his last looks 
behold : [listens. 

And O ! as the Spouse to thy words of love 
What hundredfold blessings descend on 
thee then I — 
Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright 
iris glistens. 
And returns to the lilies more richly again. 

Sister of Charity, child of the Holiest, 

O. for thy living soul, ardent as pure, — 
Mother of orphans and friend of the lowliest, — 

Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor-- 
The embrace of the Godhead so plainly enfolds 
thee. 

Sanctity's halo so shrines thee around. 
Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee. 

Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the 
ground. 

Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes. 

Burning the breast of the maidenly rose. 
To the exquisite bloom that thy jiale beauty 
flushes. 
When the incense ascends and thesanctuar]^ 
glows. 



THE SISTER OF MERCY. 



705 



And the music, that seems heaven's language, 
is pealing — 
Adoration has bowed him in silence and 
sighs, 
And man, intermingled with angels, is feel- 
ing 
The passionless rapture that conies from the 
skies. 



O, that the heart whose unspeakable treas- , 
ure 
Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay. 
Like thine, unallured by the phantom of pleas- 
ure. 
Could rend every earthly affection away. 
And yet, in thy presence, the billows subsid- 
ing. 
Obey the strong effort of reason and will. 
And my soul, in her pristine tranquillity glid- 
ing. 
Is calm as when God bade the ocean be 
still. 



Thy soothing, how gentle ! thy pity, how 
tender! 
Choir music thy voice is — thy steps angol 
grace. 
And thy union with Ueity shrines in a splen- 
dor 
Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. 
When the frail chains are broken a captive 
that bound thee. 
Afar from thy home in the prison of clay. 
Bride of the Lamb, and earth's shadows around 
thee 
Disperse in the blaze of eternity's day, — 

Still mindful as now of the sufferer's story. 
Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they 
roll. 
Intervene as a cloud between us and His 
glor)'. 
And shield from His lightnings the shudder- 
ing soul ! 
As mild as the moonbeam in autumn descend- 
ing. 
That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall 
fall. 
While He hears, with the wail of the penitent 
blending. 
Thy prayer, holy daughter of Vincent de 
Paul. 

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 



THE SISTER OF MERCY. 
We live in our lonely cells. 

We live in our cloisters grey. 
And the warning chime of the convent bells 

Tolls our silent life away. 
The loud world's busy hum 

Murmuring evermore, 
Breaks on our dim old walls, 

As waves break on the shore. 
Like the voices we used to hear 

Long ago in childhood's prime. 
Are the ties of a long dead world. 

The thoughts of a long past time. 

They tell of life's sparkling sea, 

Of its dancing billows where 
The voyager's laugh rings merrily, 

From a heart as light as air. 
But they tell not of the storms 

That swell its angry waves. 
The sunken rocks, the hideous forms 

That lie in the ocean caves ; 
The wrecks that toss in the gale. 

The lost that are buried beneath. 
The struggle, the gasp, the drowning wail, 
That follow so oft the sunbright sail 

O'er the pitiless realms of death. 

They number us with the dead. 

With our hearts so cold and dry; 
For us the sky is a roof of lead. 

And earth is like the sky. 
But the sinless soul hath wings to soar 

Above these prison bars 
To a glorious home of its own, 

Beyond the golden stars. 
The light of this seeming, dying life, 

Faded out from the eye of clay. 
Glows in the franchised spirit, 

Never to feel or fear decay. 

They speak of a mother's delight, 

They tell of wedded bliss. 
They paint a world so warm and bright, 

And say that world is this. 
But the true world we sometimes see, — 

Life in its house of withering bones, 
Life on its couch of agony. 

As it heaves and weeps and groans; 
The father's broken heart. 

The mother's about to break. 
The crushing blow, the stinging smart, 
O wedded love, we've seen what thou art, 

And not what dreamers make ! 



MOKAI. AXD MEUGJOVS POEMS. 



We inv ■■ oar kMely odK 

W« in« !■ oar doisuts giejr. 

And sweet as Ute cfaiae of the coovem beOs The tboniT cron. the dnugfat of gaU. the 

G&des oar hie with God a«^. ruffian jeers of ribald bands^ 

la tke roar of a naddeaed vorUL Tbe sliame. the agonr. the deatli ! ah. me. the 

la tnttlJMg passioas' thrflL jnears bare rolled and rolled. 

Marthas work and Marr's pare .\od stiB in this most awful type, onsel&n 

Our eadiesB ponioa s^ love, thy {ate behold \ 

Cooid toa bat a —o tn t share These it will teO. and oh '. perchance, a softer 

Tbe blisB. hke that above tbooght 'twill whisper too — 

Of a life of sSeat prarer. Father, focgice. forgive even tbein. for ah ' 

A life of a or tia g kwy : — ther know not what ther do. 

Bat ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim. my lea~: 

Tbe ^o(T of earth woidd see^ ci life is well nigfa o'er — 

Bbcfc as the tr odden leal Oh ! let me wear the little cross that ooce _ 

Faise as tbe dncaa of a dream. bappr cfaUd 1 wore !" 

As the Sasfa of tbe %fataiag brief : 

AH Bosx pass away. Tlie ^^j^iss ,3S seex: some kindly heart, thit 

And wKher. and die. and ro« ; heard the captive's dring prayer. 

Bi« tbe love of God abides and barm Left at the gate the little cross, smooth-lolde-; 

In tbe heart that deserts him not round with kmi% care ; 

TacM leave as here u> pcax. Coarse hands, and coU tbe saocd fold with 

Thea leaie as here to loic : scorn and careless lai^inor broke. 

Our pnntxwa be that yOB may rise And foaad. enshrined in soowr aeecc. a littl- 

With OS to God above: ooss of Ireh oak. 

"TMCK xrxKAT. ' - Ho! ho r they cried. - what embfems thfe ? 

what popish charm is this we see r 

Some talisman, perchance it is. to set the Iris.h 

THE C05VICT A5D THE CROSS. rebel freer 

Oh >t ^ ir«ar -je . "> -os the litife And so it is. ahhoogfa ye mock; beyood your 

r « tbil occe I w JT^ *»*»• **?«°^ r^ t»^ 

V. - - i hisrpr bov^ I roamed aktae the '^''^ ^^^ "^ *^ enfranchised forth beyond 

-...- -!!«r:«,.i»«. the san, bevood the stars ; 



\^t -^ : c^-ti the stream ^ide by. that ^<^ thoagh ye kepc it from his bands, with: 

atjoijed Eo leave so sweet a bad. _ »»» *»«Mb1 heart he bore 

Aiao 



1.0 ^be dszaat stiaad : •"•PPT <*** he wore. 

E-r^~ -^'T-- I Tmwed. oooe weal, coan woe. if 

^=vr% hope sfaoold ever ^eam A cane be on sack hrarrlrw rales, aad sfaaice 
Tzj^ Tr .- i Terdnre here at home m^ht to them who sod 

^CT-r^- from that aov wasted scream. Coold bring to life such i 
Tn^z I ■K-':yt take my b ei Mble part— tlat I the wonns of twaddk aad of tape. 

_i rak woald share. Scoorgc. if ye wiD. the hooest backs of tho^ 
.t.-Vicbcartlaspired. the patriae , who scorn your lash and ye. 

.>i do aad'dare. Dot torture not tbe sool with tbM^. aad lea-, t 
sine eyes grow dim iathiak- the iaMortal spirit free ! 

.n^-Ai^it days of yore— From Toboisk's mines, from Ethmp's ptaiiu. 
Ofe! let I 




O 
Twa tcfl wtt aMxe thaa mother'! 
teQ BK of a love diviae 




THE GJLEAT BAY. jOJ 

Sol Tours to judge the price Jess -B-orxli. doi Yes, tiD the dar s decline : iar noi iHH tbea 

yours to scan the countkrss stoic: These soovy garments shaJl be dofled. Jtai 

Of grace and hope the ct'-is^ can give, ibe bands. 

cross a Christian ch Jri .net wore ! Tfaroegfa lanes and hamlfTS and ifaea \iomt 

TberTl ^ifiy marcli. ^ritii 

Less ear but hatroier tian their voan. T^ 
THE GREAT DAY. * ' 

A week, one brief -a-eek onlr. and the dav O Ti 

Of Firsa C-ommanion shiilj have daw-ned. But nov 'tis eaiiri 

Dear chiid. A ; 

Thr Saviour cometh '. Oh '. prepare the war : Eager to done amoc^ the chmcincaid-boi^r ; 
He onh- -Bants a pure heart undefiled. 'yrHA. anBX, 

Banish from ihiae each thoug-hi untofrard and 

Arid srroir rDore like to Him, this heareiilT Thus the prooessoo grthcK oo lis coorae.. 

G aesi- And in fair coder gains the ticap^ gate. 

More holr. and more hiiinaie,and mofremUd; Ti'ilierE Faiher Jofaa TBb pride leriews ^-: 
So win he cozne -srith joy into thr breast, lonoe. 

Lavish his ireiis-jres there, and STreetfr r=lrr- Chiding the few who ev^n now came laie. 

ins rest. '^As cc-t -.r.ev vr'Z:. ':. _ vr \ c.^ >..r -' -. ■_ v^'-. 
Tbr- 

Anotber week ! Bnt ninch is saaH lo do — An ; 

In tnm the riildrer ^■. -.he i-i^ii -.■riesis s^e Xot ". - - ." ■ 

i- : r.i". i.-.r^-i ,; 'wide. The prarer of snich as these the great G 

"n'hiri •-:■— -.ne S_ ^ lax and heaisand heeds. 

Xo bean is pure enou^i ^v.i -..u^ gjcai feast. 

Yet Christ would share it with as ere He died. And now the be3fiT"5 fancied. A fenal thrZ 

And his Hearts yearnings never since have C": deeper expectation; lor ai las 

ceased"; The vesny-door opes wide aiid wider stHl. 

And now He comes to these, his dearest 1° "^^ ^ white the serreis fcmer pass, 

thoE^ his least. Each - "r";? t- -fi -f- -Jh --^:e-j t^ -sr-hj;:: r.i?; 
Ac. - - ".----- 

Tbei* are rich, vivid rioments in Efc's dav — !>-, 
Chie5v:-.__-i _- ^ ..::r:r: 



Of sir :-i^:.-r^^ r- 
More perie«lT thar. . 
From its least trace 
Sees in dear laorcini f-O" tr.: 
jonsan. 

The sam shin^ bri£ - 

How many hearts i.- ^ 

For all the dieses t= 

Borrow a brighter gjcTr ^ ?- - :-:.m Thine- 

'VThrite months of sunshine woald th^ maids The >ias begins. They kneei. and e'en t- 1 

resijrr priesi 

|'WhaIInar:t-^ ^ ' Kneels where he's wont to ssand. and sniies 

To be sseccr; his bneast 

From dren: ^ - At 7>4/3r Conmeor ; and when they've ceased. 

AD sonshiDe brii.--. i.5 -:-sr ;r.:; .-^ :rs: l .'n^- He speaks out slowly, soiemnlyihe lea. 



: not stav. 


A l-j-.r.. 


"eatieri- 




- jsaven 






The 


1 shriven 


Ha - 


-TT done- 


In r.-.. . 


u-OTPTT3nn- 


Each - :-..r 




Far see. tb 




inti F2t- 


^racw 


Wh 


-7-ine; 


Thr 


^ nhie 


Anz -. 



O Firea r.-iiinniirnraTrr-a ^ p i a\, yajrt, 3'oiiir be;- 



7o8 



MOKAL .l.XV REUGIOUS POEMS. 



For lime is passing, and the moment nears 

For which so many prayers have been 
addressed — 

So many longing sighs and heart-wrung 
tears.— 

Pray now with tears to Him who falling tear- 
drop hears. 

The Gospel o'er, the servers seat them round 
Upon the altar-steps : the rest sit too ; 
And nought is heard save the impressive sound 
Of many silent hearts. " My children, you 
Who are my joy and pride, my treasure true—" 
So doth the Bishop his discourse begin. 
Which I have sought in vain to preach anew. 
For (more than words) his tones, looks, ges- 
tures win 
Their way to innocent hearts, undimmed by 
care or sin. 

" Happy, my children, happy, happy y« I 
The Lord is with you. He who said of old 
Suffer the little ones to come to Me, 
The tender, snow-white lambkins of my fold — 
He cometh now within your breasts to hold 
Sweet converse, and his gracious gifts to 

shower. 
Ah ! not by man's tongue can the tale be told 
Of all the works of grace, and love, and power 
That He, the hidden God, works in Commun- 
ion-hour. 

"List to his prayer: ' Afy child, give iiu- thy 

heart ' ' 
From this entreaty turn not cold away. 
But beg Him of his bounty to impart 
All gifts and graces c f this blessed day. 
And seal your hearts as all his own for aye. 
So when the years, many or few, have fled. 
Through which God willeth you on earth to 

stay. 
He who shall month by month your souls have 

fed 
Will at the last come thus to bless your dying 

bed. 

'• Oh ! in the days or years 'twixt now and 

then 
May God be with you all, my children dear ! 
May you grow up good women and good men. 
If God should spare you long to labor here. 
May you live happy in his love and fear! 
Most precious earnest of tliat love is given 
To you this morn. Pray! for the moment's 



For which to fit your spirits ye have striven— 
He comes into your hearts whose smile is 
heaven of heaven. 

" Pray, then, my dear ones! Bow each heart 

and head 
Before the awful Deity that deigns 
To stoop so low our wretched souls to wed. 
On high, in glory, love, and light He reigns; 
Yet on our altars hidden He remains. 
To come into our hearts. V'our hearts to-day 
Will first receive Him. Children, still tak< 
To welcome Him as sweetly as ye may : [pains 
Pray on, then, in your hearts ; pray, dearest 

children, pray! " 

The solemn rites proceed. The sanctus bell 
Is followed by the double chime that bends 
Each head in worship. Wrong it were to tell. 
I In such rude rhyme, of Him who now descends 
"Mid these his dearest and most cherished 

friends — 
The young, the poor, the simple. Let us pra\ 
That these fresh hear 'or ours may mak( 

amends. 
And that our icy chill may melt away [Day ' 
In these warm memories of First Communion 

.MATTHEW RUSSKLL. 
From -The Irish Children s Hrsl Communion.''' 



MOSES ON PISGAH. 
With bold and tireless footsteps 

By precipice and scar. 
He climbed the steep Abarim, 

And Nebo's range afar, — 
Till the gray crest of Pisgah 

The grand old Prophet bore : 
His heart as warm, as strong his arm, 

As a hundred years before. 

His eagle-eye as piercing 

As when, in youthful days. 
O'er the strange old lore of Egypt 

It burned with ardent blaze : 
And to that eye of lightning 

God showed the promised land. 
In all its worth, from South to North — 

From East to the utmost strand. 

Lebanon's goodly mountain 
The Old Man joyed to view, 

And Bashan, with its oak-wreath'd crowi 
And Carmel's fading blue ; 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 



709 



And Gilead. and Tabor, 

And Olivet's fair green ; 
And Zion's hill, with rapture's thrill. 

And Calvary, were seen. 

All pleasant were the valleys 

O'er which his vision rolled ; 
Achor, with all its lowing herds. 

And Sharon's verdant fold: 
Jezree! showed its vineyards; 

Jehoshaphat its stream ; 
And Eschol's vale, and Shaveh's dale. 

Looked like a Prophet's dream. 

The land of brooks and fountains 

Lay 'neath the Seer's glance ; 
He saw the Arnon gambol ; 

He saw the Jabbok dance ; 
The ancient river Kishon 

Swept on in wrathful force ; 
And the Kidron mild, like a playing child. 

Laughed in its flowery course ; 

The Dead Sea and Gennesaret, 

Like gems on a stately King, 
Were joined on Canaan's royal robe 

By Jordan's pearly string ; 
And the mantle green of the beauteous Queen 

With many a jewel beamed : 
For the distant rills amongst the hills 

Like threads of silver seemed. 

Oh, who can tell the rapture 

That fired the Prophet's breast. 
As, afar, he saw where the Oath was sworn 

To his forefathers blest I 
Old Mamre's plam and Sichem ; 

Bethel, by angels trod ; 
And Gerar, too, where the promise true 

Was ratified by God. 

But, alas '. the princely quarry. 

Which death pursued so long, 
Upon the brow of Nebo 

Is struck by the archer strong ! 
The eagle-eye grows strangely dim. 

The beauteous landscape's fled ; 
And a funeral band of angels stand 

Around the kingly dead ! 

He must not cross the Jordan, 

Nor dwell in the goodly land ; 
But a better country welcomes him 

To the glorious Prophet-band : 



Not cedar trees, but trees of life 

For ever flourish here ; 
Not Jordan's rush, but rivers gush 

With living waters clear. 

Thus oft the God of Moses 

With sorrow bows the head ; 
For which He gems a crown of life 

To crown the faithful dead. 
Thus oft refuses earthly bliss, 

While higher bliss is given ; 
Denies us health, denies us wealth, 

But bids us enter heaven. 

THOMAS MCCULLAGH. 



THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale, in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 
And no man knows that sepulchre. 

And no man saw it e'er ; 
For the angels of God upturned the sod. 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the trampling. 

Or saw the train go forth.— 
Noiselessly, as the daylight 

Comes back when night is done. 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun. 

Noiselessly, as the springtime 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves ; 
So, without sound of music. 

Or voice of them that wept. 
Silently down from the mountain's crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle. 

On gray Beth Peor's height, 
Out of his lonely eyrie 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion stalking. 

Still shuns that hallowed spot. 
For beast and bird have seen and heard. 

That which man knoweth not. 



710 



MORAL A.XD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



But when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow his funeral car; 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won. 
And after him lead his masterlessmiid. 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land, 

W'e lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honor'd place 

With costly marble drest. 
In the great minster transept 

Where lights like glories fall, 
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 

Along the emblazon 'd wall. 

This was the truest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 
This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word. 
And never earth's philosopher 

Traced with his golden pen 
On the deathless page truths half so sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor. 

The hillside for a pall. 
To lie in state, while angels wait 

With stars for tapjers tall. 
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave. 
And God's own hand in that lonely land 

To lay him in the grave. 

In that strange grave without a name. 

Whence his uncoflfin'd clay 
Shall break again. O wondrous thought! 

Before the Judgment day; 
And stand with glory wrapt around 

On the hills he never trod. 
And speak of the strife that won our life, 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth Peors hill ! 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath his mysteries of grace. 

Ways that we cannot tell. 
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 

( F.LII. KRANCE.S AI.KXAXDKK. 



THE FOUR MOUNTAINS. 

ARARAT. 

O mount of hope! where rested our fathers 

long ago. 
And knelt, 'mid tears of gladness, to watch the 

, golden bow 

Which o'er the clouded heaven its glittering 

radiance flung. 
To me, O hoary mountain, thou speak'st with 

angel tongue. 
.■\n altar was thy rude peak, where sacrifice 

was poured 
Of prayer and praise ascending, well pleasing 

to the Lord ; 
Upon thy slopes and hillocks the sons of 

heaven have trod : 
Old mount, thou standest ever a monument 

to God I 



O mount of awful grandeur! O mount of 
smoke and gloom I 

mount, whence spake Jehovah man's bless- 

ing and man's doom ! 
Down thro' the vanished ages mine eyes can 
I sec thee now. 

With strange mysterious beauty upon thy 
cloud-capp'd brow : 

1 hear the trumpet ringing— 1 see the dark 

smoke rise, 
[ I feel the firm earth tremble beneath the lurid 
I skies. 

Into His holy temple the Lord of Hosts has 

passed ; 
I hear His awful footsteps rush by upon the 
blast ! 



mount of vernal beauty, where our Re- 

deemer wept. 
As He o'er lov'd Jerusalem His lonely vigil 

kept: 
From every leafy covert, from every shelter'd 

grot, 

1 hear the solemn whisper — "I would, but ye 

would not." 
His foot has prcst these valleys. His presence 

has been here ; 
Imagination pictures the Holy One as near. 
His robe has brushed the dewdrops from oflE 

yon leafy spray : 
Didst thou not hear His footsteps pass up 

the rocky way .' 



KING ED IV I. X. 



7^^ 



CALVARY. 

But Oh, thou blessed mountain ! all other 

mounts above! 
Where wondering thousands witnessed the 

might of Heavenly Love: 
With bow'd and veiled forehead, with humbly 

rev'rent knee. 
O mountain, sweet and holy, I venture nigh 

to thee. 
O mountain, writ all over with one beloved 

name! 
O mount, that flushest ever this cheek with 

pain and shame ! 

mount, by which ascending — like Jacob's 

ladder— I 
Catch glimpses of the glory that shall be by- 
and-bye. 

1 hold my breath, O mountain, I dare not come 

thee near. 
As "Why hast Thou forsaken me.'" pierces 

my spirit's ear : 
The wrathful sun is veiling in sullen gloom 

his light ; 
The trembling earth is yielding up her dead 

in sore affright ; 
The verdant turf is dripping with drops of 

sweat and gore — 
But hark ! the " It is finished ! " proclaims the 

conflict o'er. 
Mount of my Saviour's anguish — yet of His 

victory. 
Sacred art thou for ever, O blood-stain 'd Cal- 

x-ar)- ! 

AXXA LOUISA HILDEPRAND. 



PAUL AT ATHENS. 

Greece ! hear that joyful sound ! 
A stranger's voice upon thy sacred hill. 
Whose tones shall bid the slumbering nations 

Wake with convulsive thrill, [round 
Athenians! gather there ; he brings you words 
Brighter than all your boasted lore affords. 

He brings you news of One 
Above Olympian Jove : One in whose light 
Your gods shall fade like stars before the sun. 

On your bewildered night 
The Unknown God of whom you darkly dream. 
In all his burning radiance shall beam. 

Behold, he bids you rise [shrine ; 

From your dark worship round that idol 
He points to him who reared your starry skies, 



And bade your Phoebus shine. 
Lift up your souls from where in dust ye bow : 
That God of gods commands your homage 



But, brighter tidings still ! 
He tells of one whose precious blood was spilt 
In lavish streams upon Judea's hill, 

A ransom for your guilt ; [chain ; 
Who triumphed o'er the grave, and broke its 
Who conquered Death and Hell, and rose 
again. 

Sages of Greece ! come near ; 
Spirits of daring thought and giant mould. 
Ye questioners of Time and Nature, hear 

Mysteries before untold ! 
Immortal life revealed ! light for which ye 
Have tasked in vain your proud philosophy. 

Searchers for some First Cause 
Through doubt and darkness,— lo ! he points 
to One, [pause. 

Where all your vaunted reason lost must 

Too vast to think upon : 
That was from everlasting : — that shall be 
To everlasting still, eternally ! 

ANXA C. L. BOTTA. 



KING EDWIN. 
High sate King Edwin in his hall. 
Around him ranged his wise men all ; 
Queen Ethelberga by his side 
Was pleading for the Crucified. 
Then thus the King :— " Ho, Sages, say. 
Shall we Paulinus hear to-day; 
Shall we our olden gods forsake. 
And Christ our only Master make; 
Speak, shall we at this council-board 
Vow fealty to Christ as Lord .' " 

Coifi, chief of priests, the snows 
Of decades on his head, uprose 
And spake :— " O King, weigh well what now 
Is preached to us ; for, I avow 
Those gods whom I have served so long 
Have proven false, and wrought me wrong ; 
Others, who served them less, I own. 
Are nearer to thy heart and throne. 
If the new doctrines are more just. 
In them let us repose our trust." 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POE.\f.^ 



Another rose, of honor'd name. 
And spake approving of the same ; — 
" The present life of man. O King. 
Seems like a bird upon the wing; 
A sparrow flitting through the room 
Wherein you sup in winter's gloom. 
Statesmen and capuins feasting there 
In the huge log-fire s ruddy glare. 
When storms of snow abroad prevail. 
In flies the bird to shun the gale 
By one door, and then out again 
By the other; whilst he did remain 
Fair weather had he. safe and warm ; 
But soon he passed into the storm 
Once more, and vanished from our sight 
Into the dark and wintry night. 
Such is the soul in life. I trow. 
Its whence and whither none can know. 
If. therefore, this new doctrine hold 
More certain knowledge, leave the old." 

Thus wisely sjjake the wise ; and. when 
The words seemed pleasant to all men, 
Paulinus — by the King's command — 
Preached to the nobles of the land ; 
And kindled in all hearts the flame 
Of holy zeal for Christ's dear name. 

R. W. liUCKLEV. 



THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT. 
There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows 

weary 
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary — 

What may that Desert be.' 
Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys 
that come - [home. 

Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their 

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint 
eyes I 

The water he pants for but sparkles and flies — 
Who may that Pilgrim be.' 

'Tis Man. hapless Man, through this life 
tempted on. 

By fair shining hopes.that in shining are gone. 

There is a bright Fountain, through that Des- 
ert stealing 
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing — | 

What may that Fountain be .' 
'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ! 

ground. 
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found. 



I There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath tl. 

spell 
To pointwhere those waters in secrecydwell 

Who may that Spirit be.' 
'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn'd , 

that, where'er 
Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must i 
be there I 

THO.MAS .MO'JRK. 



THE TRIAL OF THE GODS. 

[" On a regular division of the [Knmanl Scnatr . Jupiter was 
ondcmned and deeraded by the sense of a \ct\ larse nuiior> 

Never nobler was the Senate. 

Never grander the debate : 
Rome's old gods are on their trial 

By the judges of the State I 
Torn by warring creeds, the Fathers 

I'rge to-day the question home — 
" Whether Jupiter or Jesus 

Shall be God henceforth in Rome ? " 

Lo. the scene ! In Jove's own temple, 

As of old. the Fathers meet; 
Through the porch, to hear the speeches. 

Press the people from the street. 
Pontiffs, rich with purple vesture. 

Pass from senate chair to chair ; 
Learned augurs, still as statues — 

Voiceless statues, too — are there ; 
Vestal virgins, white with terror. 

Mutely asking — what has come ? 
What new light shall turn to darkness 

Vesta's holy fire in Rome ? 

Answer. Quindecemvirs I Surely. 

Of this wondrous Nazarene 
Ye must know, who keep the secrets 

Of the prophet Sibylline.' 
Nay, no word I Here stand the Flamens: 

Have ye read the omens, priests.' 
Slain the victims, white and sable. 

Scanned the entrails of the beasts.' 

Priest of Pallas, see ! the people 

Ask for oracles to-day : 
Silent I Priests of Mars and Venus.' 

Lo. they turn, dumb-lipped, away I 
Priest of Jove? Flamen dialis! 

Here in Jove's own temple meet 
In debate the Roman Senate. 

And Jove's priest with timid feet 



THE ABBOTT OF INNISFALLEN. 7,3 


Stands beyond the altar railing ! 


Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac, 


Gods, I feel ye from above ! 


When the day was waxing red ; 


In the shadow of Jove's altar, 


And for his sins' forgiveness 


Men defy the might of Jove ! 


A solemn prayer he said. 


Treason riots in the temple 
At the sacrilege profound : 


Low kneeled the holy Abbot, 


When the dawn was waxing clear; 


Virgins mocked, and augurs banished, 
And divinities discrowned. 


And he prayed with loving-kindness 


For his convent-brethren dear. 


Hush ! Old Rome herself appeareth. 




Pleading for the ancient faith : 
Urging all her by-gone glory — 


Low kneeled the blessed Abbot, 


When the dawn was waxing bright; 


That to change the old were death. 
Rudely answered the patricians. 


And he prayed a great prayer for Ireland — • 


He prayed with all his might. 


Scoffing at the time-worn snare : 
Twice a thousand years of sacrifice 

Have melted into air ; 
Twice a thousand years of worship 

Have bittei-ly sufficed 


Low kneeled the good old Father, 
While the sun began to dart; 

He praj'ed a prayer for all mankind — 
He prayed it from his heart. 


To prove there is no Jupiter 1 — 


II. 


The Senate votes for Christ ! 


The Abbot of Innisfallen 




Arose upon his feet ; 
He heard a small bird singing, 


Not aimless is the story, 
The moral not remote : 


And 0, but it sung sweet! 


For still the gods are questioned. 


He heard a white bird singing well 


And still the Senates vote. 


Within a holly-tree ; 
A song so sweet and happy 


Men sacrifice to Venus ; 


To Mars are victims led ; 


Never before heard he. 


And Mercury is honored still ; 




And Bacchus is not dead ; — 


It sung upon a hazel. 


But these are minor deities 


It sung upon a thorn ; 


That cling to human sight : 


He had never heard such music 


Our twilight they — but Right and Wrong 


Since the hour that he was born. 


Are clear as day and night. 




We know the truth ; but falsehood 


It sung upon a sycamore. 


With our lives is so inwove — 


It sung upon a briar; 


Our Senates vote down Jesus 


To follow the song and hearken 


As old Rome degraded Jove ! 


The Abbot could never tire. 


JOHN BOYLE O'RF.ILLY. 


Till at last he well bethought him. 




He might no longer stay ; 




So he blessed the little white singing-bird. 


THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN. 


And gladly went his way. 


The Abbot of Innisfallen 


III. 
But when he came to his Abbey walls, 


Awoke ere dawn of day; 


He found a wondrous change: 


Under the dewy green leaves 


He saw no friendly faces there, 


He went him forth to pray. 


For every face was strange. 


The lake around his island 


The strange men spoke unto him, 


Lay smooth and dark and deep; 


And he heard from all and each 


And, wrapt in a misty stillness. 


The foreign tongue of the Sassenach — 


The mountains were all asleep. 


Not wholesome Irish speech. 



7'4 



MOJiAL AW KEUoIOUS POEMS. 



Then the oldest Monk came forward, 

In Irish tongue spake he : 
■ Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress. 

And who hath given it to thee ? " 

• I wear the holy Augustine's dress. 

And Cormac is my name: 
The Abbot of this good Abbey 

By the grace of God I am. 

•' I went forth to pray at the break of day ; 

And. when my prayers were said. 
I hearkened awhile to a little bird. 

That sung above my head. ' 

The Monks to him made answer, 
"Two hundred years are gone o'er 

Since our .^bbot Cormac went thro' the gate. 
And never was heard of more. 

" Matthias now is our .Abbot. 

And twenty have passed away : 
The stranger is lord of Ireland ; 

We live in an evil day." 



" Now give me absolution. 

For my time is come." said he ; 
; And they gave him absolution 
' As speedily as might be. 

Then close outside the window. 
The sweetest song they heard. 
j That ever yet since the world began 
Was uttered by any bird. 

The Monks looked out and saw the bird ; 

Its feathers were snowy-white ; 
And quickly came unto it 

Another bird as bright. 

■ Those two birds they sang together, 
I And the two their white wings spread 
They flew aloft and they vanished, — 
But the good old man was dead. 

They buried his blessed body 

Where lake and greensward meet ; 
I A car\'en cross above his head, 
t And a holly-bush at his feet ; 

Where spreads the beautiful water 

To gay or cloudy skies. 
And the purple peaks of Killarney 

From ancient woods arise. 

WILLIAM ALLINGH.\M. 



THE CROSS OF MONTEREY. 
Good Junipero the Padre,* 

When 'twas dying of the day. 
Sat beneath the dark tall pine-trees 

By the Cross of Monterey, 
Listening as the simple red men 

Of their joys and sorrows told. 
And their stories of the Missions, 

And their legends quaint and old. 

And they told him when Portala 

Rested by the crescent bay. 
Little dreaming he was gazing 

On the wished-for Monterey, 
That this cross on shore he planted. 

And the ground about it blessed. 
And then he and his companion,; 

Journeyed northward on their quest. 

And the Indians told the Padre 

That Portala's cross at night. 
Gleaming with a wondrous splendor. 

Than the noon-sun was more bright; 
And its mighty arms extended 

East and westward. O so far ! 
And its topmost point seemed resting 

Northward on the polar star. 

And they told, when fear had \'anished. 

How they gathered all around. 
And their spears and arrows buried. 

In the consecrated ground ; 
And they brought most fragrant blossoms. 

And rare ocean shells in strings. 
And they hung upon the cross-arms 

All their choicest offerings. 

And the Padre told the Indians- 

'• Ah, if rightly understood. 
What you tell me of the cross here 

Has a meaning deep and good ; 
For that light is emblematic 

That the time is near at hand 
When the laith of Christ the Saviour 

Will illumine all the land. 

"To the Cross cling. O my children! 

In the storm and in the night. 
When you wander, lost and weary. 

It will be a guiding light : 
Cling to it. and cares and sorrows 

Very soon will all have passed. 
And the palm and crown of glory 

Will be given you at last." 

Pioneer of the Catholic Missii ns of California. 



THE MIDNIGHT MAS^. 



Good Junipero the Padre 

Thus unto the red men told 
Of the symbol of salvation, 

And its meaning deep and old. 
Sitting by the crescent bay-side. 

When 'twas dying of the day. 
At the foot of dark tall pine-trees 

By the Cross of Monterey. 

RICHARD E. WHl 



715 



THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 



Of the Mission Church, San Carlos, 

Builded by Carmelo's bay. 
There remains an ivied ruin 

That is crumbling fast away. 
In its tower the owls find shelter. 

In its sanctuary grow 
Rankest weeds above the earth-mounds. 

And the dead find rest below. 



ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
With mirthful shout, with music, dance, and 

game. 
The youths throng round the ruddy Beal-fire's 

ray; 
The antique usage bears the mind away 
To ages when that sacrifice of flame 
Was Eire's homage to the God of Day. 
Yet through the gloom and mist of centuries 

gray 
Methinks this relic of the Pagan past 
Would scarce have lived, did not its flame 

reveal 
A mystic truth to Christian fervor dear — 
How when the Sun of Righteousness drew 

near. 
An earth-born witness rose, with glowing zeal, 
To image forth His glory and His love — 
To point the true believer's path above — 
And how Christ came, the fire of love on earth 

to cast. 

And is not flame to heavenly things akin } 
Like prayer that mutely from the soul ascends 
Before God's throne, it ever upward tends ; 
And even as Love divine o'ercometh sin. 
All earthly things itsheat consumes or bends; 
Radiant as Hope, and strong as Faith, that 

lends 
Its torch to gu'.de us through life's gloomy 

maze. 
Would all might learn thy love, thou emblem 

grand ! 
That we, as children of the holy Light, 
So heavenward lived, — so imaged truth and 

right ; 
And, as the peasant bears a glowing brand 
To bless his home from this new fire divine, 
Should we prepare within our hearts a shrine 
Where God's pure love might burn with still 

increasing blaze. 

OLIVIA KNIGHT CONNOLLY. 



Still, by peasants at Carmelo, 

Tales are told and songs are sung 
Of Junipero, the Padre, 

In the sweet Castilian tongue 
Telling how each year he rises 

From his grave the mass to say, 
In the midnight, mid the ruins, 

On the eve of Carlos' day. 

And they tell, when aged and feeble. 

Feeling that his end was nigh. 
To the Mission of San Carlos 

Padre Serra came to die ; 
And he lay upon a litter 

That Franciscan friars bore. 
And he bade them rest a moment 

At the cloister's open door. 

Then he gazed upon the landscape 

That in beauty lay unrolled 
And he blessed the land as Francis 

Blessed Assisi's town of old ; 
And he spoke: "A hundred masses 

I will sing, if still life's guest, 
That the blessing I have given 

On the land may ever rest." 

Ere a mass was celebrated 

Good Junipero had died. 
And they laid him in the chancel. 

On the altar's Gospel side. 
But each year the Padre rises 

From his grave the mass to say. 
In the midnight, mid the ruins. 

On the eve of Carlos' day. 

Then the sad souls long years buried. 

From their lowly graves arise. 
And as if doom's trump had sounded. 

Each assumes his mortal guise ; 
And they come from San Juan's Mission, 

From St. Francis' by the bay, 
From the Mission San Diego, 

And the Mission San Jose. 



710 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



With their gaudy-painted banners. 

And their flambeaux burning bright, 
In a lone procession come they 

Tlirough the darkness and the night, 
Singing liynins and swinging censers, 

Dead folks" ghosts — they onward pass 
To tlie ivy-covered ruins. 

To be present at the mass. 

And the grandsire, and the grandame, 

And their children march along. 
And they know not one another 

In that weird, unearthly throng. 
And the youth and gentle maiden, 

They who loved in days of yore, 
Walk together now as strangers. 

For the dead love never more. 

In the church now all arc gathered. 

And not long have they to wilit ; 
From his grave the Padre rises. 

Midnight mass to celebrate. 
First he blesses all assembled. 

Soldiers, Indians, acolytes ; 
Then he bends before the altar. 

And begins the mystic rites. 

When the Padre sings the sanctus 

And the host is raised on high. 
Then the bells up in the belfr>'. 

Swung by spirits, make reply ; 
And the drums roll and the soldiers 

In the air a volley fire. 
While O Saliilaris rises 

Grandly from the phantom choir. 

" Ite, iiiisa est." is spoken 

At the dawning of the day. 
And the pageant strangely passes 

From the ruins sere and gray ; 
And Junipero the Padre 

Lying down, resumes his sleep. 
And the tar-weeds rank and noisome. 

O'er his grave luxuriant creep. 

And the lights upon the altar 

And the torches cease to burn. 
And the vestments and the banners 

Into dust and ashes turn ; 
And the ghostly congregation 

Cross themselves and one by one. 
Into thin air swiftly vanish. 

And the midnight mass is done. 

RICHAKU E. WHITE. 



THE LOST CHURCH. 

I In yonder dim and pathless wood 

I Strange sounds are heard at twilight hour, 

! And peals of solemn music swell 

As from some minstrel's lofty tower. 
From age to age those sounds are heard. 

Borne on the breeze at twilight hour ; 
From age to age no foot hath found 
A pathway to the minster's tower 1 

Late, wandering in that ancient wood. 

As onward through the gloom I trod. 
From all the woes and wrongs of earth 

My soul ascended to its God. 
When lo! in the hushed wilderness, 

I heard, far off, that solemn bell : 
Still heavenward as my spirit soared. 

Wider and sweeter rang the knell. 

While thus in holy musings rapt. 

My mind from outward sense withdrawn, 
Some power had caught me from the earth. 

And far into the heavens upborne, — 
Methought a hundred years had passed 

In mystic visions as I lay. 
When suddenly the parting clouds 

Seemed opening wide and far away. 

No mid-day sun its glory shed. 

The stars were shrouded from my sight 
And lo I majestic o'er my head, 

A minster shone in solemn light. 
High through the lurid heavens it seemed 

Aloft in cloudy wings to rise. 
Till all its pointed turrets gleamed 

Far flaming through the vaulted skies! 

The bell with full resounding peal 

Rang booming thro' the rocking tower: 
No hand had stirred its iron tongue. 

Slow-swaying to the storm-wind's power. 
My bosom beating like a bark 

Dashed by the surging ocean's foam, 
I trod, with faltering, fearful joy 

The mazes of the mighty dome. 

A soft light through the oriel streamed. 

Like summer moonlight's golden gloom, 
Far through the dusky arches gleamed. 

And filled with glory all the room. 
Pale sculptures of the sainted dead 

Seemed waking from their icy thrall. 
And many a glor\'-circled head 

Smiled sadly from the storied wall. 



THE CHILD AND THE ELDERS. 



717 



Low at the altar's foot I knelt, 

Transfixed with awe. and dumb with dread, 
For blazoned on the vaulted roof 

Were heaven's fiercest glories spread. 
Yet when I raised my eyes once more, 

The vaulted roof itself was gone ; 
Wide open was heaven's lofty door, 

And every cloudy veil withdrawn ! 

What visions burst upon my soul. 

What joys unutterable there 
In waves on waves forever roll. 

Like music through the pulseless air,^ 
These never mortal tongue may tell ; 

Let him who fain would prove their power. 
Pause when he hears that solemn knell 

Float on the breeze at twilight hour. 

SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
Frotii the Gcimoii of Vhhiiui. 



THE CHILD AND THE ELDERS. 
Softly fell the touch of twilight on Judea's 

silent hills ; 
Slowly crept the peace of moonlight o'er 

Judea's trembling rills. 

In the temple's court conversing, seven elders 

sat apart ; 
Seven grand and hoary sages, wise of head 

and pure of heart. 

"What is rest.?" said Rabbi Judah, he of 

stern and steadfast gaze, 
" Answer, ye whose toils have burthened 

through the march of many days." 

" To have gained," said Rabbi Ezra, "decent 

wealth and goodly store 
Without sin, by honest labor — nothing less 

and nothing more." 

"To have found," said Rabbi Joseph; meek- 
ness in his gentle eyes, 

" A foretaste of heaven's sweetness in home's 
blessed paradise." 

"To have wealth, and power, and glory 
crowned and brightened by the pride 

Of uprising children's children," Rabbi Ben- 
jamin replied. 

" To have won the praise of nations, to have 

worn the crown of fame," 
Rabbi Solomon responded, loyal to his kingly 

name. 



" To sit throned, the lord of millions, first and 

noblest in the land," 
Answered haughty Rabbi Asher, youngest of 

the reverend band. 

" All in vain." said Rabbi Jarus. " if not faith 

and hope have traced 
In the soul Mosaic precepts, by sin's contact 

unefTaced." 

Then uprose wise Rabbi Judah, tallest, gravest 

of them all ; 
" From the heights of fame and honor even 

valiant souls may fall ; 

" Love may fail us; Virtue's sapling grow a dry 

and thorny rod. 
If we bear not in ourbosomsthe unselfish love 

of God." 

In the outer court sat playing a sad-featured, 

fair-haired child ; 
His young eyes seemed wells of sorrow — they 

were godlike when he smiled. 

One by one he dropped the lilies, softly plucked 

with childish hand; 
One by one he viewed the sages of that grave 

and hoary band. 

Step by step he neared them closer, till, en- 
circled by the seven. 

Thus he said, in tones untrembling, with a 
smile that seemed of Heaven : 

" Nay, nay. fathers ! Only he, within the meas- 
ure of whose breast 

Dwells the human love with God-love, can 
have found life's truest rest; 

" For where one is not, the other must grow 
stagnant at its spring. 

Changing good deeds into phantoms — an un- 
meaning, soulless thing. 

" Whoso holds this precept truly owns a jewel 

brighter far 
Than the joys of home and children — than 

wealth, fame, and glory are. 

" Fairer than old age thrice-honored, far above 
tradition's law. 

Pure as any radiant vision ever ancient pro- 
phet saw. 



7«8 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



"Only he. within the measure— faith appor- 
tioned — of whose breast 

Throbs this brother-love with God-love knows 
the depth of perfect rest." 



Wondering, gazed they at each other. " Praised 

be Israel evermore : 
He has spoken words of wisdom no man ever 
spake before ! " 

" Hold !" cries the angry Governor, 

" This impious jargon cease. 
Adore the gods whom all adore, 

And live thy life in peace. 
Adore or die !" " Or die ?'" she saith 
"Choose sterner threat than this ; 
Faintly stole the sounds of evening through p^^ death is but the golden gate 

the massive outer door ; 
Whitely lay the peace of moonlight on the 
Temple's marble floor. 



Calmly passing from their presence to the 
fountain's rippling song. 

Stopped he to uplift the lilies strewn the scat- 
tered sprays among. 



" Who died the death of shame. " she cries. 

'• To save the souls He made. 
And for our ransom on the tree 

His last red life-drops pai1 1 
Be glor)' to the one true tiod. 

One God in Persons Three ! 
Be glory to the Eternal Son, 

Jesus, who died for me !" 



To radiant home of bli; 



Where the elders lingered, silent since he 

spake, the Undefiled — 
Where the Wisdom of the ages sat amid the 

flowers, a child ! 

MARY E. MANNIX. 



THE LEGEND OF ST. DOROTHY. 
Constantius fills the imperial throne — 

Father of Constantine : 
He, too, of mildness not unmeet 

To found the Christian line. 
But Diocletian's code at times 

Yet wreaks its bloody will. 
As waves will toss and foam and fret 

After the storm is still. 

Before the ruthless Governor 

Of Cappadocia stands 
The high-born maiden Dorothy, 

Serene, with folded hands. 
Her brow is fair, her cheek is red. 

Her laugh breaks low and clear ; 
And young she is and innocent — 

And wherefore stands she here .> 

But here are only smiles for her, 

And counsels kindly meant. 
" Blanch not, fair maiden," smirks the judge ; 

" Thou art but hither sent 
To check those foolish, slanderous tales 

Which link thy honored name 
With his— the Wretch of Galilee— 

Who died the death of shame." 



" That garden fair, whose .-Vutumn fruits 

'Mid flowers of Springtime gleam ; 
Nor blight nor tempest dares to break 

The rose's Summer dream, 
.^hl might I fade from this dark earth. 

Melt quite away, and flee 
To Him, my Lover and my Lord, 

Jesus, who died for me I " 

The young Theophilus o'erhears 

The martyr's raptured sighs, 
And with a not ungracious scorn, 

•• O Dorothy," he cries, 
■■ If flowers and rosy fruits are there 

In this rude season found. 
Send me a few I " "I will," she saith. 

The snow was on the ground ! 

The girl hath braved the tyrant's rage ; 

.■Ml tortures, threats, are vain. 
Now butchers eager press, their steel 

In virgin blood to stain ; 
While at the last before her kneels 

Yon beauteous smiling child, 
\ basket in his tiny hands. 

With fruits and flow'rets piled. 

•■ Take these unto Theophilus! 

Say Dorothy hath cried 
To Heaven for mercy on his soul 

Ere with glad heart she died. 
Tell him I go, and he shall come 

Where flowers and fruits abound 
Of softer sheen, of sunnier tint." — 

The snow was on the ground I 



-,ERTKUDE OF SAXONY. 



■19 



The snow shone white o'er all the ground, 

Save where the ruby gush 
From that young fearless Christian heart 

Forced pagan earth to blush. 
So Dorothy is throned on high. 

Close, close to Christ, her Spouse ; 
And by her side Theophilus. 

With laurel round his brows. 

M.VITHEW RUSSELL. 



GERTRUDE OF SAXONY. 
A cloudy pillar before Israel went. 
An angel kept Tobias in the way, 
A star led up the Magians to the tent, 
Wherein new-born the Child of Glory lay. 
Therefore the wayfarers will always say : — 
Praise be to Him who guides his servants' feet, 
Who keeps them that no evil will assay [beat. 
To do them harm — when storm or hot rays 
A refuge from the storm, a shadow from the 
heat. 

On Saxon soil her journey had begun, 
A gentle pilgrim on a holy quest. 
Nor will she that long journey's end have won 
Until Alsatian soil her feet have prest ; 
This maiden there would be a convent's guest. 
Whereof the glor\' far and wide is told, 
And there she would take up her lasting rest ; 
For there, while love of many has grown cold. 
The earnest discipline of ancient times they 
hold. 

And others in her company there were, — 
An ancient kinsman, and — intent on gain — 
Some merchants with them the same way did 

fare; 
Till once when night o'ertook them on the 

plain, 
No shelterwon, the merchants then were fain 
Re-seek their lodging lately left behind : 
The holy pilgrims might not so restrain 
Their eager steps, but trusted well to find. 
Ere night was fully come, some shelter to 

their mind. 

But sooner than they looked for, thickest 
night 

Fell, — and they gazed around them, if per- 
chance 

The lowliest cottage might appear in sight. 

For now return they could not, nor advance : 



When of a sudden, on that plain's expanse, 
A palace of surpassing beauty rare 
Seemed to stand up before them at a glance ; 
Then gladly did they thitherward repair, 
Hoping to find due rest and needful succor 
there. 

And being there arrived, they marvelled much, 
For doors and windows open wide they found. 
And all without doors and within was such. 
With such perfection of fresh beauty crowned. 
As though in that day's space from out the 

ground 
New-risen. Entering in they wondering saw 
How all things for life's use did there abound, 
But inmate none appearing, they for awe 
And secret fear well-nigh were tempted to 

withdraw. 

But wlien they for a season waited had. 
Behold ! a Matron of majestic air. 
Of regal port, in regal garments clad. 
Entered alone — who, when they would declare, 
With reverence meet, what need had brought 

them there 
At such untimely hour, smiling replied 
That she already was of all aware ; 
And added she was pleased and satisfied 
That they to be her guests that night had 

turned aside. 

And ere the meal she spread for them was 

done. 
Upon a sudden One there entered there. 
Whose countenance with marvellous beauty 

shone. 
More than the sons of men divinely fair. 
And all whose presence did the likeness wear 
Of angel more than man : he too, with bland. 
Mild words saluted them, and gracious air; 
Sweet comfort, solemn awe, went hand in 

hand, [grims stand. 

While in his presence did the wondering pil- 

Then turning to the Matron, as a son 
Might to a mother speak familiarly ; 
He spake to her — they only heard the tone, 
Not listening, out of reverent courtesy : 
And then with smile of large benignity 
Saluting them again, he left the place. 
And was not more seen by them — only she. 
That Matron, stayed and talked with them a 

space, 
Whose words were full of sweetness and of 

heavenly grace. 



720 



MORAL A.\D K ELI G 10 US POEMS. 



And then she showed them chambers for their Though but to guard them from one night's 
rest. cold air, — 

And had no ministries of love disdained : 
And 'twas their thought, if some have una- 
ware 
Angels for guests received, with love un- 
feigned. 
That they had been by more than angels 
enteruiined. 

KICHAKI) LHENEVIX TRENCH. 



And did not that tired maiden then forget 
To take, and lead apart, her wear)' guest. 
And pointing where a ready couch was set. 
So with her own hands spread the coverlet 
Above her, bidding her till morning rose 
That she should render unto sleep his debt. 
And sufler him her weary lids to close. 
Then, with a blessing given, she left them to 
repose. 

The morning come, she bade them rise anon. 
For now their fellow-travellers were in sight. 
Journeying that way, and would be quickly 

gone- 
The merchaniswhom they quitted yesternight. 
Refreshed they rose to meet the early light. 
And to rejoin their company prepared : 
But first due thanks they tendered, as was 

right ; 
To her who had for them so amply cared : 
And with those thankful hearts forth on their 

way they fared. 

So set they forward from that stately hall. 
And now had journeyed for a little space, 
When musing much, and wondering much at 

all [their face. 

Which had befallen them there, they turned 
Its fair proportions once again to trace. 
When lo ! with newer awe their hearts were 

filled : 
For it had wholly \anished from its place. 
Like some cloud-palace that the strong winds 

build, [willed. 

Which to unmake again they presently have 

While this new admiration them did seize. 
They saw some nobles of the land that way 
Come riding: straightway they inquired of 

these 
If they had never seen, nor yet heard say, 
Of some great dome that in that quarter lay. 
But these to them made answer constantly, 
How they had ridden past by night and day. 
But that such stately hall might nowhere be, — 
Only the level plain, such as they now might 



Thereat from them did thankful utterance 
break [care 

And with one voice they praised His tender 
Who had upreared a palace for their sake. 
And of that pomp and cost did nothing spare. 



THE FIRST REDBREAST. 

A Ug,;uiof Good I-rUay. 
A quaint and childish stor)', often told. 
And worth, perchance, the telling, for it steals 
Through rustic Christendom ; and boyhood, 

bold 
And almost pitiless in pastime, feels 
The lesson its simplicity conceals ; 
Hence kind Tradition, to protect from wrong 
1 A gentle tribe of choristers, appeals 
! To this ancestral sacredness, so long 
In grateful memor>' shrined, and now in 
grateful song. 

One Friday's noon, a snowy-breasted bird 
Was flying in the darkness o'er a steep 
Nigh to Judea's Capital, where stirred 
The rabble's murmur sullenly and deep. 
Far had it sailed since sunrise, and the sweep 
Of its brown wing grew languid, and it longed 
To rest awhile on some green bough, and peep 
Around the mass that on the hill-side thronged 
As if to learn whereto such pageant stern 
belonged. 

The robin whitebreast spied a Cross of wood 
That lifted o'er the din its goni' freight; 
Beneath, the sorrow-stricken Mother stood. 
And silent wailed her Child's less cruel fate. 
' But lest she mourn all lone and desolate. 
Has reason whispered to that fluttering breast, 
Whom, Whom, on Whom those fiends their 

fury sate .' 
Mark how it throbs with pity, nor can rest. 
Till it has freed its Lord, or tried its little best. 

And see, with tiny beak it fiercely flies. 
To wrench the nails that bind the Captive fast. 
Ah I vain, all vain those eager panting cries. 
That quivering agony ! It sinks at last. 
Foiled in the generous strife and glares aghast 



THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 



721 



To see the thorn-crowned Head droop faint 

and low, 
Mute the pale lips, the gracious brow o'er- 

cast ; 
While from the shattered palms the red drops 

flow. 
Staining the pious bird's smooth breast of 

speckless snow. 

That snow thus ruddied fixed the tinge of all 
The after-race of robins : and 'tis said, 
Heaven's fondest care doth on the robin fall, 
In memory of that scene on Calvary sped. 
Hence, urchins rude, in quest of plunder led 
To prowl round hedges, never dare to touch 
The wee white-speckled eggs or mossy bed 
Of " God's own bird." So from the spoiler's 

clutch 
Would you, God's child, be free .' Ah ! feel for 

Jesus much. 

MAI IHKW RUS.SELL. 



THE LEGEND OF EASTER EGGS. 
Trinity bells, with their hollow lungs. 
Their vibrant lips and their brazen tongues, 
Over the roofs of the city pour 
Their Easter music with joyous roar, 
Till the soaring notes to the sun are rolled. 
As he swings along in his path of gold. 

" Dearest papa," says my boy to me. 
As he merrily climbs on his mother's knee, 
" Why are these eggs that you see me hold 
Colored so finely with blue and gold ? 
And what is the wonderful bird that lays 
Such beautiful eggs upon Easter days.'" 

Tenderly shine the April skies. 

Like laughter and tears in my child's blue eyes. 

And every face in the street is gay_ 

Why cloud this j'oungster's by saying nay ? 

So I cudgel my brains for the tale he begs. 

And tell him this story of Easter eggs: — 

You have heard, my boy, of the Man who 

diL-d. 
Crowned with keen thorns and crucified ; 
And how Joseph the wealthy — whom God 

reward ! — 
Cared for the corse of his martyred Lord, 
And piously tombed it within the rock. 
And closed the gate with a mighty block. 



Now close by the tomb a fair tree grew. 
With pendulous leaves, and blossoms of blue ; 
And deep in the green tree's shadowy breast 
A beautiful singing bird sat on her nest. 
Which was bordered with mosses like mala- 
chite. 
And held four eggs of an ivory white. 

Now when the bird from her dim recess 
Beheld the Lord in his burial dress, 
And looked on the heavenly face so pale. 
And the dear hands pierced with the cruel 

nail. 
Her heart nigh broke with a sudden pang, 
And out of the depths of her sorrow she sang. 

All night long till the moon was up 
She sat and sang in her moss-wreathed cup, 
A song of sorrow as wild and shrill 
As the homeless wind when it roams the hill, 
So full of tears, so loud and long. 
That the grief of the world seemed turned to 
song. 

But soon there came thro' the weeping night 
A glittering angel clothed in white ; 
And he rolled the stone from the tomb away. 
Where the Lord of the earth and the heavens 

lay; 
And Christ arose in the cavern's gloom. 
And in living lustre came from the tomb. 

Now the bird that sat in the heart of the tree 
Beheld this celestial mystery. 
And its heart was filled with a sweet delight, 
And it poured a song on the throbbing night ; 
Notes climbing notes, till higher, higher, 
They shot to heaven like spears of fire. 

When the glittering, white-robed angel heard 
The sorrowing song of the grieving bird. 
And, after, the jubilant paean of mirth 
That hailed Christ risen again on earth. 
He said, " Sweet bird, be forever blest 
Thyself, thy eggs, and thy moss-wreathed 
nest!" 

And ever, my child, since that blessed night, 
When death bowed down to the Lord of light, 
The eggs of that sweet bird change their hue. 
And burn with red and gold and blue 
Reminding mankind in their simple way 
Of the holy marvel of Easter day. 

FIT2-J.\.MES O'BRIEN. 



•22 



MORAL AND RELIGIOUS POEMS. 



HUBERT THE HUNTER. 
Lord Hubert lived, long years ago, 

In good King Pepin's reign. 
The lightest heart and heaviest hand 

In all broad Aquitain. 

He loved his home, he loved his king, 

He loved a winsome face. 
He loved right well his noble self. 

But better loved the chase. 

The foremost in the kingly joust. 

The first in hunting train ; 
The bravest brand in all the land 

Was crossed with his in vain. 

Small favorites with Hubert bold 
Were bookish clerk and priest; 

And sore he chafed when sport was barred 
By frequent fast and feast. 

"Twas in the blessed Lenten time. 

The holiest week of all ; 
The silence of the Day of Woe 

Fell like a funeral pall. 

No joy-bell rang, no light was there. 
Nor sight nor sound of mirth • 

The sadness of the Sacrifice 
Was on the mourning earth. 

By holy men in penJince garb 
The shrouded cross was borne, 

When o'er the hill rang loud and shrill 
A merry bugle-horn. 

The baying of a hound boomed out 

Along the distant road ; 
With bow and spear and hunting gear 

Lord Hubert reckless strode. 

With mock obeisance spake the knight : — 

•• Good father, ban me not. 
Nor saint nor Pharisee am I, 

But sinful man, God wot. 

" But deeds of grace may wash out sin, — 

1 pledge a hunter's word. 
The fattest buck in gloomy Hartz 

This night shall grace thy board." 

Then answered mild the holy man : 

" Forbear the awful crime 
Of him who sheddeth sinless blood 

In holy Easter time. 



■• An erring servant of the Lord 
Nor ban nor curse may say. 

But may the gentle Christ forgive 
Thy foul affront, I pray." 



The town is passed ; the forest deep 

Is cold and still and gray ; 
So silent, you might deem the brutes 

Revered the sacred day. 

Now deeper, deeper grows the wood, 
And darker grows the gloom; 

And colder chills assault the heart. 
Like breezes from the tomb. 

The broken twig hangs motionless. 

The budding leaf is still ; 
The sunless winter of the North 

Is not more dark and chill. 

Lord Hubert bore the stoutest heart 

In all broad Aquitain, 
Yet, but for very shame, had wished 

Him fairly home again. 

So deadly calm the awful wood, 

The winding of his horn 
Was lost in space, nor echo e'en 

Was backward to him borne. 

" Good faith !" he cried, "the holy man 
Shall venison lack to-day ;" 

When lo ! before his startled gaze 
A quarry stood at bay. 

Stout Hubert drew a deadly shaft. 
His aim was true and keen. 

And fairer mark a hunter's skill 
Has seldom found, 1 ween. 

He drew the arrow to the head. 
His aim was keen and true ; 

Then sudden fell the bow and shaft. 
And fell stout Hubert, too. 

For, 'mid the branching antlers there. 

Upon a forehead white 
The symbol of the gentle Christ 

Was marked in dazzling light. 

At holy cross on beastly front 
The huntsman pressed the sod. 

And heard, like him of Israel. 
The accents of a God. 



O MARY. QUEEN OF MERCY. 



The joy-bells rang in Easter morn, 

The good folk held the feast, 
And watched the conscious rising sun 

Dance gladly in the East. 

Lord Hubert knelt in humbled heart 
And prayed for grace to teach 

The lesson taught by Heaven to him 
Through brute's inspired speech: — 

That gentle sport in season meet 

Awakes not Heaven's wrath : 
But wo the wretch for sinless life 

Who no compassion hath ! 

That bird and beast are in his care, 

Whose lives are but a span. 
And he that wastes offendeth God, 

Who gave the breath to man. 

And honest sportsmen evermore 

Are merciful indeed ; 
For good Saint Hubert blesseth him 

Who heeds his gentle creed. 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



"0 MARY, QUEEN OF MERCY!" 
There lived a knight long years ago. 

Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless ; 
Of God above, or hell below. 

He took no thought, but undisma\'ed. 

Pursued his course of wickedness. 

His heart was rock, he never prayed 

To be forgiven for all his treasons ; 

He only said, at certain seasons, 

'■O Mar)', Queen of Mercy!" 

Years rolled, and found him still the same. 
Still draining pleasure's poison-bowl ; 

Yet felt he now and then some shame, 
The torment of the Undying Worm 
At whiles awoke his trembling soul : 
And then, though powerless to reform, 
Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 

At last youth's riotous time was gone, 
And loathing now came after Sin. 

With locks yet brown he felt as one 
Grown gray at heart; and oft. with tears, 
He tried, but all in vain, to win 
From the dark desert of his years 



One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening, 
He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 

A happier mind, a holier mood, 
A purer spirit, ruled him now ; 

No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, 
And, under a religious vow. 
Travailed his way to Pommerland. 
There entered he an humble cloister. 
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister. 
"O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

Here, shorn and cowled, he laid his cares 
Aside, and wrought for God alone. 

Albeit he sang no choral prayers. 
Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, 
He mortified his flesh to stone ; 
For him no penance was too stern ; 
And often prayed he on his lonely 
Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
•' O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 

And thus he lived long, long; and, when 
God's angels called him, thus he died. 

Confession made he none to men, 
Yet, when they anointed him with oil. 
He seemed already glorified. 
His penances, his tears, his toil. 
Were past ; and now, with passionate sighing. 
Praise thus broke from his lips while dying, 
■• O Mary, Queen of Mercy! " 

They buried him with mass and song 
Aneath a little knoll so green ; 

But, lo ! a wonder-sight !— Ere long 
Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound. 
The fairest lily ever seen ; 
And, on its petal-edges round, 
Relieving their translucent whiteness, 
Did shine these words in gokl-hued brightness, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 

And, would God's angel give thee power, 
Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold 

The fibres of this holy flower 
Upspringing from the dead man's heart 
In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 
Then wouldst thou choose the better part ! 
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions,- 
Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
•• O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
From the German of Simrock. 



-24 MORAL A.XD RELIGIOUS POEMS. 


MORNING AND EVENING. 


II. 


, 


In the evening of thy day, 


In the morning of thy days. 


When thy step is slow and weak ; 


When thy youth is glad and strong; 


When thy locks are silver-gray, 


When thine eye hath glancing rays. 


And thy tongue must feebly speak ; 


And thy light step leaps along; 


When thine eyes can scarce discern 


When thy cheek is red with health. 


Faces most familiar— dear ;— 


And thy locks are glossy bright; 


And thy deaf ears vainly turn 


When in poverty or wealth 


Where the song resoundeth clear ; 


Thou can'st equally delight; 


When thou creepest to the fire. 


Holding in thy heart a store 


Warming thy poor withered form. 


Of fresh hope to bear thee on. 


And the stretch of thy desire 


(Waves all rolling to the shore, 


Is safe shelter from the storm ; 


Glittering in the rising sun !) 


When thy years are garnered up 


When a circle of home-friends. 


In the har\est of the past. 


Yet unbroken, hems thee round. 


And the dregs of life's low cup 


And each voice its welcome sends 


Are brief days that cannot last; 


With a sweet familiar sound ; 


When thy home-friends, one by one. 


When the future, yet untried. 


Have departed to their rest. 


Seems all promise and all joy : 


Thou, the last leaf, fluttering on 


Love rewarded.— want supplied — 


Boughs no more in verdure drest ; 


Happiness without alloy ;— 


When — the summons heard at length,— 


Then, though brilliant be thy morn. 


Death's strange shadows round thee close, - 


Cloudless and serene thy sky. 


In thy weakness shall be strength. 


From the day when thou wert born 


In thy weariness repose. 


Look to that when thou must die. 


If thou didst remember still 


Many a cloud of sin and strife 


Thy Creator in thy youth. 


Must obscure the distant heaven. 


Doing all His gracious will. 


Ere thou yieldest up thy life 


Walking by the light of truth. 


To the God by whom 'twas given ! 


Fear not then to lose thy way 


Therefore in the morning light, 


When the evening gloom hath come. — 


In the sultr\- noontide glow. 


God, whom thou didst serve all day. 


Vea, till evening dew doth fall. 


Bids His angels guide thee home 1 


Pray to Him through joy and woe! 


CAKOLl.NE E. NUKTOX. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



INDEX OF BIOGRAPHY. 



Alexander, Cecil Frances 729 

Alexander, William (Rev.) 729 

AUingham, William 729 

Anster, John 730 

Armstrong, Edmund John 730 : 

Armstrong, tieorge Francis 730 

Banim, John 731 

Barry, Michael Joseph 731 

Berkeley, George (Rev.) 731 

Blake, Mary E 73i 

Botta, Anne C. L 73i 

Boyle, John 73= 

Brenan, Joseph 732 

Bronte, Charlotte 733 

Bronte. Emily 733 

Brougham, John 733 

Brown, Frances 733 

Brown, John Patrick 734 

Butler, Wilham Archer (Rev. ) 734 

Callanan, James J 734 

Carleton, William 734 

Carpenter, Henry B. (Rev.) 735 

Casey, John Keegan 735 

Cherry, Andrew 735 

Clarke, Joseph I. C 735 

Collier, Thomas S 735 

Collins, William 735 

Connolly, Daniel 73C> 

Connolly, Olivia Knight 73^1 

Conway, Katherine Eleanor 736 

Cowan, Samuel K 73^ 

Croker, Thomas Crofton 737 

Croly, George (Rev.) 737 

Cronin, Patrick (Rev.) 737 



Davis, Francis 738 

Davis, Thomas Osborne 738 

Dermody, Thomas 739 

De Vere, Aubrey (Sir) 739 

De Vere, Aubrey Thomas 739 

De Vere, Mary Ainge 739 

Donnelly, Eleanor C 739 

Dowden, Edward 740 

Dowling, Richard 740 

Downing, Ellen 740 

Drennan, William 74c 

Drummond, William H 741 

Dufferin, Lady 741 

Duffy, Charles Gavan 741 

Egan, Maurice Francis 741 

English, Thomas Dunn 742 

Farrell, Joseph (Rev.) 742 

Ferguson, Samuel (Sir) 743 

Forrester, Arthur M 743 

Forrester, Ellen 743 

Forrester, Fanny 743 

Eraser, John De Jean 744 

Furlong, Thomas 744 

Gallagher, William Davis 744 

Geoghegan, Arthur Gerald 744 

Geoghegan, William 744 

Gilmore, Minnie 744 

Goldsmith, Oliver 745 

Graves, Alfred Percival. 745 

Gray, Jane L 745 

Griffin, Gerald 746 

Guiney, Louise Imogen 746 



Darley, George 737 ] Halpine, Charles Graham 746 

Davis, Eugene 737 ' Harding, Edward 747 



INDEX OF lilOGKAl'HV 



Holmes, Edmond G. A . . . 747 ] 

Hughes, John (Most Rev.) 747 

Ingram, John Kelts 747' 

Irwin, Thomas Caulfield 748 

Joyce, Robert Dwyer 74^ 

Keegan, James (Rev.) 74*' 

Keegan. John 748 | 

Kelly, Eva Mary ... 749 

Kelly. William I). (Rev.) 749 

Kenny, James 749 

Keppel, Caroline (Lady) 749 

Kickham, Charles J 750 

Knowles. James Sheridan 75" 

Lanigan, George T 750 

Leckey, William E. H 75" 

Le Fanu, Joseph Sheridan 751 1 

Lever, Charles James * . . . 751 

Locke, John 751 

Lover, Samuel 751 

Lysaght, Edward 752 

Maginn, William 752 

Mahany, Rowland B 752 

Mahony, Francis S. (Rev.) 752 

Mangan, James Clarence 753 

Mannix, Mary E 754 

Marston, I'hilip Bourke 754 

Maturin, Edward 754 

Meagher, Thomas Francis 754 

Milliken, Richard Alfred 755 

Moore, Thomas 755 

Muir, Marion 755 

Mulholland, Rosa 756 

MuUaly, Mary 756 

Munkittrick, Richard K 756 

Murphy, Katherine 756 

McCarthy, Denis Florence 756 

McCarthy, Justin Huntly 757 

McClure, William J. (Rev.) 757 

McDermott, Hugh Farrar. 757 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy 75S , 

Mcllwaine, William (Rev.) 758 | 

McMullin, Mary A 758 

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth 759 

Ogle, George 759 j 

Orr, James 759 

O'Brien, Attic 759 ' 

O'Brien, Fitz-Jatiies 759 



O'Conncll, Daniel 7'k) 

O'Connor, Joseph 7O0 

O'Connor. Michael 760 

O'Donnell, John Francis 761 

O'Hagan, John 761 

O'Hara, Theodore 7f.T 

O'Reilly, John Boyle 7'i 

O'Ryan, Francis V - 

O'Ryan. Julia M 7' 

O'Shaughnessy, Arthur 7'' , 

Ossian 763 

rarnell, Fanny 763 

ramell, Thomas (Rev.) 764 

Read, Cliarles Anderson 764 

Riley, James Whitcomb 764 

Roche, James Jeffrey 765 

Russell, Matthew (Rev.) 765 

Ryan Abram J. (Rev.) 765 

Ryan, Carroll 766 

Ryves, Elizabeth ... 766 

Sadlier, Mary A 766 

Savage, John 7*16 

Sedulius 766 

Serrano, Mary J 767 

Shanly. Charles Dawson 767 

Shea, John Augustus 767 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 767 

Sheridan, Thomas 768 

Sigerson, George 768 1 

Simmons, Bartholomew 768 1 

Sterling, John 768 

Stokes, Whitley 769 

Sullivan, Margaret F 769 

Sullivan, Timothy D 769 

Swift, Jonathan 769 

Tayli-ir, Una Ashworth 770 j 

Tighe, Mary 77° ] 

Todhunter, John 770 | 

Trench, Richard Chenevix (Most Rev.) 770 I 

Tynan, Katharine 770 

Waller, John Francis 771 

Walsh, Edward 7: ■ 

White, Richard E 771 

Whitman, Sarah Helen 771 

Wilde, Lady 772 

Wilde, Oscar 772 

Wilde, Richard Henry 772 

Williams, Richard Dalton 773 

Wilson, John Crawford 773 

Wolfe. Charles (Rev.) 773 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



Alexander, Cecil Frances. 

Cecil Fnuices Alexander is tlie wile of 
Dr. WHliara Alexander, Bishop of Derry 
and Raplioe. Before her marriage to Dr. 
Alexander she was Miss Cecil Frances Hum- 
phreys. Her poems, chiefly on moral and 
religious themes, are verj' numerous, and 
have made her name familiar in Ireland 
and England. The best known among them 
is the "Burial of Moses," which has been in- 
corporated in various collections. An 
estimate of her success in the special field 
she has chosen may be formed from the fact 
tliat over forty editions of her moral songs, 
hymns for children, etc., have been pub- 
lished. She was married to Dr. Alexander 
in 1849. 



Alexander, William (Right Rev.). 

Bishop Alexander was born in Londonderr3' 
in April, 1834. He was ordained in the Epis- 
copal Churcli in 1847, and in 1867 he was 
appointed Bishop of Derry and Raphoe. In 
his earlier years he wrote a number of 
poems, chieflv religious, which gained him 
a good sliare of literary reputation. They 
not only gav e much promise, but ])ossessed 
positive merit. A collection of them that 
was published several years ago has passed 
out of print. He is a frequent contributor 
of prose tq ecclesiastical literature, and as a 
pulpit ora|Cor he has long enjoyed a reputa- 
tation foi marked brilliancy and power. If 
his poems were upon other than religious 
themes, they probably would be more 
widely known. 



Allingham, William. 

Tiie picturesque town of Ballyshannon, on. 
the Erne, and in the County of Donegal, is 
the native place of William Allingiiam, who 
was born in 1838. His father was a man of 
some local repute as a banker, and the son 
received a good education, but no profes- 
sional training. Going to London in his 
early years he found employment suited 
to his tastes, and a considerable part of his 
life has been passed there. It may be said 
that his first practical encouragement in 
literature came from Charles Dickens, who 
received and welcomed him in the pages of 
"Household Words." An appointment in 
the customs service, which he held until 
1873, when he resigned it to suiceod Mr. 
Froude as editor of "Eraser's JMagazine," 
kept him above the necessity of writing 
merely for bread. Since 1864 he has 
been in receipt of a pension for literary 
service. He retired from his editorial posi- 
tion some time after the return of Mr. 
Froude from his unsatisfactory lecture 
tour in America, but did not abandon liter- 
ary work. Mr. Allingham has published 
three or four vohimes, and each has been 
well received. The subjects are taken 
chiefly from Irish peasant life. A long- 
poem, entitled " Lawrence Bloomfield in 
Ireland," which ran through several num- 
bers of " Eraser's," is a narrative of obser- 
vation that reveals close and sympathetic 
study of the condition of the people. 
Another long poem, " The Music-Master," 
the scene of which is also laid in Ireland, 
shows his talent in a higher and more 



L^ 



730 



niOGKA I'HIL A A SO TKS. 



artistic vein. Altlioii.£:h not or (lie national 
school of Iiisli poets, lie has written in a 
purely Irish spiiit. His minor poems are 
niurked by a simplicity, in the thought it- 
self as well as the expivssion, for v/luch 
natui-alncss is the best descriptive tenii. He 
depicts Ininible life and rustic scenes in 
colors which make the pictures easily 
recognized by all who know the Vealilies of 
an IrLsh villajre or country-side. That he is 
a true poet is fully attested by the appi-ecia- 
tion he has gaine<1 when; Irish themes, even 
without political beariiii,'s, ai-i- not regunled 
with fuvoi-. 



AXSTKH, JOHX. 

The most noteworthy work of John Anster, 
LL.D., is an admirable translation of 
Goethe's " Faust." His original- poems, 
however, show a fair degree of merit Dr. 
Anster w.os born at Charleville, Cork, in 
1793. In 1810 he entered Trinity College, 
Dublin, where he took the full scliohistic 
coui-se, and obtained his degree. In 1824 he 
was called to the Irish bar, and in 1841 he 
w;is placed on the civil list, with a pension 
in recognition of his literary services. Dur- 
ing his active yeai-s he was a valued con- 
tributor to '• Bhu-kwood's," the Dublin 
•■University Magiizine," and the "North 
British Review." He died in Dublin in 
1S67. 



Armstrong, Kdmixd .1. 

Dying before he had nuuhed his twenty- 
third birthday, Edmund John Ariristrong 
left literary effects of remarkable quality 
and variety for a life so brief ;us his. As 
placed before the public some time after his 
death by his brother, Professor George F. 
Armstrong, they comprise a large volume 
of poems, a volume of essays and sketches, 
and most of the material constituting his 
"Life and Lettei-s," which his brother 
edited. He was born in Dublin in July, 
1841, and in 1859 he entered Trinity College, 
where liis winning character and exceptional 
talents soon made him a favorite among his 
fellow-students. An injuiy to one of his 
lungs brought on an illness which caused 
his death in February, 1865. He was not 
yet twenty-one yeai-s old when his principal 
poem, the "Prisoner of Mount Saint 



Michael," a spirited tale in blank vei-se, w^i- 
written. He also wrote in the same form, 
"Avoca: an Idyllic Poem," "The Dui^gle : 
a Story of Wicklow," and "Glendalough : a 
Story of Wicklow." His mastery of blank 
verse, which tries the most experienced 
writers, was vei-y remarkable in one so 
young. His short poems in the conven- 
tional forms are marked by tenderness and 
an easy gr.icc of movement, and all his 
verse contains not only gi'eat promise, but 
much notable fulfillment. One of the most 
interesting papei-s among his essays is an 
extended study of Eklgar A. Poe. 



ARMSTROMi, (iKORUK pR.WflS. 

The quality of his work entitles George 
Francis Armstrong to exceptional distinc- 
tion in the company of authors. His poems, 
both lyriciU and dramatic, have cei-tain 
si>ecial characteristics which show the work- 
ing of a vigorous and original mind. Mr. 
Armstrong was born in the county of Dub- 
lin, May 5, 1845. He was educated at 
Trinity College, and at the ;ige of nineteen 
he gained the highest honore for English 
veree. At twenty-one he received the gold 
medal for coni|>ositiou from the Historical 
Society ; at twenty -two he was awarded a 
gold medal for es.says by the Philosophical 
Society ; at twenty-six he was appointed 
Profes-sor of History and English Literature 
in the Queen's College, Cork, and a few 
years ago he was elected a Fellow of the 
Royal Uni vol's! ty of Ireland. His most am- 
bitious work is a di-ainatic trilogy entitled 
the "Ti-agedy of Israel," the parts being 
respectively named, "King Saul," "King 
David" and "King Solomon." This pi-o- 
duction has received the hifhest praise from 
the best literary authorities A long poem 
in blank vei'se, entitled " Tgono," and i-e- 
markable for dramatic vigir and intense 
passion, has also been warmly commended. 
A later volume, "A Garland fi-oin Greece,"' 
the fruit of some travels in that countiy 
and Turkey, contains lines >qual to the 
most spirited of Byron's tribiit- s to Hellenic 
prowess and glory, ami also som > descriptive 
poems of rare beauty. In 187' Mr. Arm- 
strong published the "Life, Letters and 
Essays," and al.so a complete edition of thi- 
poems, of his brother, Edmund J. Arm- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



731 



strong. The poem, "Slain in tlie Fore- 
front," bears strong indications of tiaving 
been inspired by his brother's death. Hi.s 
latest volume, "Stories of Wicklow," pub- 
lished in 1886, consists of poems whicli relate 
wholly to the picturesque part of Ireland 
named in the title. Mr. Armstrong-'s verse 
shows poetical power of a very hig'h order, 
and both skill and scholarsliip in its execu- 
tion. As one of Ireland's men of letters, he 
has gained an eminent place. The absence 
of political verse from his productions ])artly 
accounts for his not being more widely 
known in a national sense. 



Banim, John. 

" Soggarth Aroon" is the only metrical ef- 
fort of John Banim's that has stood the lest 
of time. His other pieces, with the excep- 
tion of the pretty love-lyric, "Ailleen," do 
not entitle him to recognition as a poet. As 
a writer of fiction lie was undoubtedly a man 
of superior talent. In conjunction with his 
brother, Michael, he wrote a number of 
spirited tales of Irish life, which enjoyed 
great popularity in their time, and gained 
him a place in the company of successful 
authors. Like Griffin, Banim essayed dra- 
matic work at the beginning of his literary 
life. He wrote the drama of "Damon and 
Pythias" in his twenty-fourth year, and had 
the gratification of seeing it gain a brilliant 
success on the London stage, with sucli 
eminent actors as Macready and Charles 
Kemble in the title parts. He was born in 
Kilkenny in 1798, and his deatli took place 
in .August, 1843, after a protracted and most 
painful illness. 



Barry, Michael Joseph. 

Tlie name of Jlicliael J. Barry was familiar 
to the last generation in Ireland. Mr. 
Barry wrote a number of poems, and also 
prepai'ed a collection of ballads, etc., whicli 
was published in Dublin, in 1845, under the 
title of "The Songs of Ireland." In that 
little book he made an effort, more earnest 
than convincing, to show that George Nu- 
gent Reynolds, not Thomas Campbell, wrote 
"The Exile of Erin." Some lines from one 
of his own poems, " Tlie Place to Die," are 
often quoted. Inquiries concerning him 
have only elicited the statement that he is 
still living, somewhere on the Continent. 



Berkeley, Gborc+k (Right Rkv.). 

Bishop Berkeley, author of the poem in 
which occurs the oft-quoted line, 

" Westward the course of empire takes its way," 
was born at Kilcrin, county Kilkenny, in 
March, 1684. He died in January, 1753. 
With the approval of Swift, he formed a 
plan of establishing a college at the Bermu- 
das, for the purpose of training pastors for 
the colonial churches and missionaries for 
the Indians, and it was in anticipation of 
the results of the scheme, which was not 
carried out, tliat he wrote the celebrated 



LAKE, Mary E. 
Mrs. Blake, whose poetical talent has re- 
ceived wide recognition, was born in Duu- 
garvan, County Waterford, Ireland. Leav- 
ing her native place in early childhood, she 
has since lived in Massachusetts, chiefly in 
Boston, where she has gained much esteem 
in both social and literary circles. In 1865 
she was married to Dr. J. G. Blake, a lead- 
ing physician of that city. Like many otliei- 
Irish-American writers, Mrs. Blake pre- 
sented her first verses to the public through 
the columns of the Boston " Pilot." The 
first collection of her poems appeared in 
1883, and was received with much favor. 
The high appreciation in which her talent 
is held was notably attested by the request 
of the civic authorities of Boston that she 
should contribute a poem to the memo- 
rial services in honor of Wendell Phillips. 
In complying with that request, Mrs. Blake 
produced an elegiac poem of rare power 
and beauty. Among her prose woi-ks ai'e 
a volume of sketches of a trip to California, 
entitled "On the Wing," and published in 
1883, and a series of interesting papers called 
"Rambling Talks," contributed to the Bos- 
ton "Journal " over the initials of "M. E. B.,'' 
and running through several years. Her 
prose as well as her poems shows Mrs. 
Biake as a possessor of the true literaiy 
gift. She is especially happy in writin.g 
what may be called the poetry of child- 
hood. 



Botta, Axxe C. L. 

Mrs. Anne Charlotte Lynch Botta was born 
at Bennington, Vermont. Her father, whose 
name was Lynch, wiis a native of Dublm. 



732 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



At the ajje of sixteea he joined the patriotic 
movement led liy Loixl Edward Fitzjrerald. 
Falling- into tlif liunds of llie English, he 
becanie a fellow piisoner with Thomas 
Addis Emmet, Dr. McNevin, and other dis- 
tinguished men who then soiifjht their 
oonntry's freedom. After serving four 
veal's in prison, he was banishcil for life, 
and eame to America with Emmet and 
McNevin. He married a daiijrhter of 
Colonel (iraj', of the Connecticut line in 
the Revolutionary army, and he died in 
Cuba a few yeai-s later. His daughter, 
Anne Charlotte Lynch, was educated at 
Albany, N. Y. During her school-days slie 
wrote sevei"al poems of nmch promise, 
which was fulfilled as her mind became 
matui-ed. A volume of her poems, with 
fine illustrations by various artists, was pub- 
lished in 1848, and a revised edition, with 
some new poems, appeared in 1881. Her 
most important work, however, is a " Hand- 
book of Univei-sjil Literature." which was 
published in 1860. This is held in high es- 
teem as a refei-ence and text-book. In 1855 
j she was married to Professor Vincenzo 

I Botta, of New York, a gentleman distin- 

j guished for learning and culture. She had 

then been a resident of New York a few 
yeai-s, and her home wius noted as a place 
fretpiented by the brightest spirits of the 
literary and artistic world. In this respect 
it closely resembled the French salon. Her 
receptions were contmued after her mar- 
riage, and have not yet wholly ceased. In 
later yeare Mi's. Bottiv has given attention to 
sculpture rather than literature, and her 
modelling lias elicited much praise. Both 
her poems and her prose show deep feeling 
and sound reflection. 



BOTLK, JoiiX. 

Manly thought and a womanly gentleness 
marked the poetical as well as the per- 
sonal character of John Boyle, of whom 
a groat deal more niiglil be said liere 
than the present purpose requires. Mr. 
Boyle was born near the town of Banagher, 
Kings County, Ireland, about 1822. He 
arrived in New York in 1842, and he i-esided 
there continuouslv to the time of his death 
— January 7, 1885. Before leaving Ireland 
he received a good education, which was 
enlarged by assiduous study and long cxpe- 



Brkxax, Joseph. 

The single poem, ''Come tome, Doai-est," 
would be sufficient to mark Joseph Brenan 
as a poet of superior rank. He wrote many 
other excellent |)oems, however, but his 
productions are not available in collective 
form, and only a few civn now be obtained. 
5Ir. Brenan was born in Cork, November 
ITtli, 18'.28. He began his literary work in 
early ycare, and was a contributor to the 
national pi-es.s in Dublin, wliither he i-e- 
moved in 1848, at the age of twenty. En- 
tering heartily into the '• Young Ii-eland " 
movement, he had the distinction of being 
one of the many patriots who have made 
acquaintance with Kilmainham prison for 
devotion to their country. Soon after 
his release he left Ireland for New York, 
where lie arrived in the autumn of 1849, 
and at once turned to journalism, which en- 
gaged his t:ilents the greater part of the 
few yeare he was destined j-et to live. He 
found time, nevertheless, to write several 



rieiice as a teacher in New York. When 
his death occurred he w.ts at the head of 
one of the most flourishing public schools of 
the city. Mr. Boyle was through life a dili- 
gent student of the liistory of his country 
and an ardent sympathizer with her people 
in their various efl'orts to place her in a bet- 
ter position before the world. His literarj- 
t;Lstes took form at an early age, and he was 
for many years a writer of spirited and 
melodious veree, the greater part of which 
appeared anonymously, as it was not in his j 
nature to attract attention to himself. All 
his literary work was done in such leisure 
hours as could be spared from his profes- 
sional duties. In 187G he published an inter- 
esting historical work. •' The Battle Fields 
of Ireland," astudy of the Willianiite wars, 
which was well received. Had his duties 
as a teacher been less exacting, he would 
doubtle-ss have done much more in litera- 
ture, as by taste and talent he was well 
lltted for the jirofcssion of lettci-s. He wrote 
with remarkable fluency, and w;xs especially 
happy in the melodious turn of his vei'se. 
As to his personal chai-acter, it may be said 
that he was one of the most gentle, modest 
and lovable of men, the very soul of honor 
in all things, and sensitively faithful to 
every obligation of life. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



733 



poems and contribute some articJes to the 
magazines. In August, 1851, he married 
Miss Mary Savage, a sister of his friend, 
John Savage, and he removed tlie same 
j'ear to New Orleans, to fill an engagement 
on the "Delta" newspaper. An attack 
of yellow fever brought on a temporary 
blindness, an affliction wliicli led to the 
production of one of his best poems. He 
returned to New York tor a short time, but 
soon resumed his newspaper work in New 
Orleans, and remained there till his death, 
which took place May 27, 1857. For some 
of his poems in this volume the Editor 
is indebted to Mr. Savage, who intended 
publishing all his poems togetlier several 
years ago, but was prevented by their un- 
fortunate destruction by fire. There is 
much reason to regret that the Ij'rical re- 
mains of so true and gentle a poet as Joseph 
Brenan are not available in their entirety. 



Broxte;, Chabi/Otte axd Emily. 

The gifted sisters, Charlotte and Emily 
Bronte, are associated wholly with the lit- 
erature of England. Inasmuch, however, 
as their father, the Rev. Patrick Bronte, 
was not only an Irishman by birth, but, so 
far as is known, also by lineage, there is as 
good reason to introduce the sisters here as 
some other writers who, although not of 
Irish nativity, were or are at least partly of 
Irish extraction. Their mother, Maria 
Brauwell, was an English woman, of repu- 
table family. Their jioetiy does not reveal 
any special gift for verse-uiaking, but it ob- 
tained some recognition when first placed 
before the public, and a certain interest is 
imparted to it by their great success as 
novelists. Its general tone is one of weari- 
ness, and it all has a strong personal bear- 
ing. Charlotte was born at Thornton, Eng- 
land, in 1816, and died in 1855. Emily was 
born in 1818 and died in 1848. 



Brougham, Johij. 

Few men have been more beloved by their 
fellows than genial, witty, generous, whole- 
souled John Brougham, comedian, dra- 
matist, story-writer and poet. Brougham 
was born in Dublin in 1810, and his death 
occurred in New York in 1880. In 1830 he 
began tlie theatrical career which was for 



nearly half a century one of the brightest 
in the annals of the stage. After an appren- 
ticeship to his favorite art in Dublin and 
London, he came to the United States in 
1843, and the New World was thenceforward 
his home, although between that pei'iod 
and his death he made a few professional 
visits to the Old. His flftj' years at tlie 
footlights were an unbroken round of joy- 
ousness to the public, although the closing 
scenes, when age and illness had overtaken 
him, were sad and dismal to himself. In the 
coarse of his career he tried several experi- 
ments as a manager, but did not succeed 
with any. It was as a member of tlie 
famous old-time Wallack company that he 
became universally poinihu- in New York, 
though he Ikl.I ]h .-vioiisly gained much 
favor in the tln/utLu iiKiiiai;i'd by tlie come- 
dian William E. Burton. Besides his 
numerous plays, he wrote some books and 
several short and charming stories, and he 
edited for a while a bright weekly paper of 
the humorous sort called the "Lantern."' 
His pen was always busy, and always used 
for good purposes — to instruct, enliven and 
elevate. He was otherwise too busy to 
write many poems, but the few produced 
by him show that he could have done much 
under the tutelage of the Muses had his 
other occupations permitted him to court 
their favor. His humor, whether on the 
stage or among his friends, was irrepressi- 
ble and inexhaustible, and his ))resence in 
any company was like a flood of sunshine 
in the freshness of morning. At a dinner 
given him at the Astor House in 1869, a 
poem was read bj' Mr. William Winter, in 
which some of his most winning' character- 
istics were thus glanced at : 

He walks the world tor three-score years, 

In trouble, as in triumph, gay ; 
He wakes our laughter, wins our tears, 

And lightly charms our cares away. 

lu him conjoined once more we view 
High powers to conquer and command, - 

The heart to feel, the hand to do,— 
The Irish heart, The Irish hand ! 



Brown, Frances. 

Stranorlar, in the county of Donegal, was 
tlie native place of Jliss Frances Brown, 
whose entire literary work was done under 
the sad andgreat disadvantage of blindness, 
caused by an attack of small-pox in her 



734 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



childhocHl. At an eurly ajfe, nevertlieless, 
by having' otlicre read to her, she acquired 
an extensive knowledjfe of books and an- 
thoi-s, and when but a little past girlhood 
she entered the ranks of the latter heisi'lf. 
Her first printed pro<liictions appeared in the 
]x>pidar '• Irish Penny Journal." Slie s<jon 
after obtained admission to the London 
"Athenannn," and subsequently to other 
En.^lish publiaitions. In 1848, she took up 
her residence in England, where the re- 
mainder of her life wius passed. She be- 
came well known in the literary world and 
her pen found steady employment. Her 
lirst volume of poems was published before 
her departure from Ireland, and the second, 
"Lyric and Miscellaneous Poems,"' during 
an interval that she spent in Scotland be- 
fore settlinj; in London. Fiction being more 
lucrative than poetry. Miss Brown turned 
her mind to novel-writing soon after her 
arrival in England, and in that dejiartment 
of litei-ature she gained much success. 
Among the novels written by her are " Mj' 
Share in the World," an autobiographical 
work; "The Castleford Case," " The Hid- 
den Sin," "The Neighboi's of Kilniaclone," 
" The House of De Valdez," and " 1776," an 
American tale. Miss Brown was born in 
January, 1816, and died in August, 1879. 



feasor of Moral Philosophy, and subse- 
quently a pastor in the diocese of Raphoe. 
He wrote much on philosophical subjects, 
and he also produced sonje very meritori- 
ous poems, chiefly on religious themes. 
His best poeticsil efloi-ts, however, were in- 
spired by nature, of which he was an intel- 
ligent and sympathetic student. 



Rowx, John Patrick. 
John Patrick Brown is of Irish parentage, 
and was born in Philadelphia, Pa., in 1839. 
For a number of years past he has lived in 
Boston, following the law as a profession, 
and occasionally exercising an unusually 
fine literary talent. His poems arc not 
numerous, but their quality justifies a re- 
gret that his pen has not been more freely 
used on the lines of metre and melody. 
The poem on the " Wedding " of the Juni- 
ata and Suscpiehanna is an exceedingly line 
production, and the same may be said of 
the piece entitled " Givet." 



BlTl.KK, WiLUAM A. (Rev.). 

Aniouj;- Irish writei's not so widely known 
as they deserve may be named the Rev. 
AVilliani Archer Butler, an Episcopal cler- 
.gyman, who was born near Clonmel, Tip- 
perary, in 1814, and died in 1847. He was a 
Scholar of Trinity College, Dublin, a Pro- 



Cali,axax, Jamks J. 

This writer, a native of Cork, was born in 
1795, He was educated for the priesthood, 
but flnding that his inclinations were not 
towartl a clerical life, he became a tutor 
instead. After some >-icissitudes he was en- 
gaged as an assistant in the school of Dr. 
William Maginn, in Cork, and through the 
influence of his employer, who soon discov- 
ered his litei-ary talent, he became a con 
tributorto " Blackwood's" and other mag; > 
zincs. JIany of his poems are translation^ 
fiom the Irish, but he also wrote original 
vei-se of nuich merit. His most ambitious 
poem, "The Recluse of Inchidony," written 
in the manner of Byron, whom he greatly 
admired, has some good stanza.s, but tli' 
best of his productions is '• Gougane Ban-.i. 
which so competent an authority as Alh- 
bone calls "the most perfect, jjcrhaps, of 
all Irish minor poems, in the melody of its 
rhythm, the flow of its language, and the 
weird foi-ce of its expressions,'' He died 
comparatively young — viz., at the age of 
thirty -four. 



Carlktox, William. 

The prelidc authorof " Traits and Stories of 
the Irish Peasantry," and innumerable nov- 
els depicting the manners, customs and 
general detail of the daily life of the people, 
with their needs, pleasui-cs, passions and as- 
pirations, made no endeavor to gain recog- 
nition as a poet. His weird ballad of "The 
Churchyard Bride," based on a familiar 
Irish tradition, is his only effort of note 
ill that direction. William Carleton was 
born in the County Tyrone, in 1794, of 
parents in poor circumsUinces, who suc- 
ceeded, however, in giving him a fair edu- 
cation. He was intended for the Church, 
but his inclinations did not favor that pur- 
pose; and the force of circumstances, it may 
be said, drove him to literature, which 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



proved to be the calling tor which lie was 
especially fitted. His lii-st book did not ap- 
pear until he was thirty-six years old. When 
nearlj' all his work had been done, and age 
was coming upon him. his friends procured 
him a pension of £200 per annum. He died 
in 1869, after an illness that was both long 
and painful. It was almost wholly as a 
novelist that lie gained a place in the liter- 
aiy ranks. 



Carpenter, Henrt Bernard (Rev.). 
Among the Irish-American members of the 
literary guild in Boston, is the Rev. Henry 
Bernard Carpenter, who was born in Ireland 
in 1840, and has resided in Boston several 
years. As preacher, lecturer and poet he is 
I'avorably known. A volume of his poems 
published in 1887 was w^ell received. His 
verse is mainlj' philosophical, but not at all 
deficient in what is called human interest. 



Casey, John Keegan. 

As a poet of the Fenian period, John Kee- 
gan Casey, who was best known as " Leo," 
gainetl a special and somewhat enviable 
reputation. His Ij-rics and ballads, all at- 
tuned to the popular chord, were familiar 
in every neighborhood in which the Fenian 
spirit prevailed, and had a strong influence 
in keeping it active and aggressive. For 
his personal connection with Fenianism he 
suffered a dreary imprisonment of eight 
months, that undoubtedly hastened his 
death. He was born near MuUingar, County 
Westmeath, August 22, 1846 ; his imprison- 
ment occurred in 186T, and he died March 
17, 1870. So great was his popularity that 
as many as 50,000 people are said to have 
attended his funeral. 



Cherry, Andrew. 

A native of Limerick; born in 1762; died 
in 1813. At the age of seventeen he became 
a strolling player, and his caresr thence- 
forward was connected witli the stage. He 
wrote a number of plays wliich were popu- 
lar in their day, and several songs which 
also enjoyed favor. His latter j'ears were 
spent in England, where he succeeded as an 
actor, and also became known as a llie- 
atrical manager. 



Clarke, Joseph I. C. 

Joseph I. C. Clarke is a native of Ireland, 
but has been a resident of New York a num- 
ber of j-eare, engaged in the active duties 
of a journalist. He was attached to the 
New York "Herald" a considerable time, 
and at present he is the managing editor of 
the "Morning Journal." As busy journal- 
ists cannot devote much time to the muses, 
Mr. Clarke's poetical efforts are not as nu- 
merous as they doubtless would be if he 
were moi'e free to follow his inclinations in 
that direction. 



Collier, Thomas S. 

Thomas S. Collier, who has gained a place 
in the ranks of American poets, is but re- 
motely of Irish lineage, the first emigrant 
among his progenitors having left Ireland 
for France shortly after the battle of the 
Boyne. From France he came to Virginia, 
where the American growth of the familj' 
began. The subject of this note has in his 
veins the blood of Ireland, France, England, 
and the old Knickerbockers of New York. 
He was born in New York City, November 
4, 1842. In his fourteenth year he went to 
sea, and finding a sea-faring life suited to 
his taste, he entered the U. S. Navy in 1857, 
remaining in it till October, 1883, when he 
was retired, because of disability resulting 
from injuries received in the line of duty. 
He served in the navy through the war 
with the South, and both before and after 
the war he made cruises to nearly all parts 
the wo\-ld. Mr. Collier has done a great 
deal of good literary work, contributing 
poems, stories and general articles to the 
"Atlantic" and the "Century" magazines 
and other standard publications. The first 
of his poems to obtain popularity was 
"Cleopatra Dying." His spirited poem 
"Sun-burst," is is warm and vigorous a 
protest against English rule in Ireland as it 
could well be even if the author were of 
Irish birth. It and other poems relating to 
Ireland show true sympathy with tlie land 
of his ancestors. 



Collins, William. 

Strabane, County Tyrone, is the birth-place 
of William Collins, author of numerous 
spirited ballads, and also a prolific writer of 
prose. Jlr. Collins came to America at an 



736 



HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



early age, served in one of the Western [ 
armies during the war witli tlie Sontli, and 
has since resided chiefly in New York, when- 
his pen has been steadily engaged. His 
I»iblications, besides u volume of poems, 
;ire, " The Wild Geese," a histoncal ro- 
iiumce, and •Dalui-adia, a Talc of the Days 
of King Milcho." His poems deal largely 
with individual heroism in Ireland's long 
resistance to oppression. 



)XXOI,LY, D.A^XIKL. 

This note istaken from the " Household Li- ; 
hi-ary of Catholic Poets": — "Daniel Con-! 
nolly was born in Belleek, County Fer- \ 
niunagh, Ireland, in 1836. At the age of 
(ifteen years he came to the United States, 
and he has since been a resident of New- 
York. His firet newspaper work was done 
(lining the war for the Union, when' he fur- 
nished the New York ' Dally News," then 
a leading morning paper, with correspon- 
dence from Washington and Virginia. 
After the war he became associate editor of 
the • Metropolitan Record,' which had been 
established several j'ears before as a Cath- 
oli<' paper, by Mr. John Mullaly, with the 
saiKtion of Archbi.shop Hughes. In 1872 he 
gave up joiu-nalisni as a regular calling, to 
engage in business, but did not abandon it 
wholly. His poems, written at leisure 
times, would make a goodly volume, but 
Ihev have not been collected." 



health was feeble, and his wife was soon left 
a widow. In an inti-oduction to acoUectlon 
of her i>oems, published in Dublin, Charles 
Gavan Duffy sjK'aks of Mrs. Connollyascon- 
ductinga school " near Warwick, on the fa- 
mou-s Darling Downs, where she resides and 
6nds happiness in her duties and studios." 
" In this distant land," he adds, '• she is still 
serving her first mistres.s, the Dark Rosalei'n 
of the poet ; laboring, if not for her country, 
at least for her i-acv, who are largely reprc. 
sented in the population." 



CoxxoLLY, Olivia Kxiuht. 

Under the name of " Thoma.sino." a writer I 
whose poems attracted much notice ap- 
peared In the Dublin "' Nation " some time 
after the death of Thomas Davis. The new j 
lontributor was then Miss Olivia Knight, i 
daughter of a |>rofesslonal man at Ca-stlebar, I 
whose death had left his family destitute, j 
When Miss Knight began writing she was 
supporting her mother and hei-self by teach- 
ing. She afterward became employed at 
varied literary tiisks in Dublin. In 1860 she 
saiknl foi' Australia, at the suggestion of the 
Bishop of Brisbane, to aid him in carrying 
out an important scheme of education. 
Among her fellow pas.sengers was Mr. Hope 
Connolly, a young journalist, who a-sked 
her to become his wife as soon as he should 
gsiiu a footing in the colony. They were 
niarri«.'il a few years later, but Mr. Connolly's 



COXWAY, Katherixk Bleaxor. 

Among modest writei-s of true merit may 
be named Ml-ss Katherine Eleanor Conway, 
who has been an industrious worker with thi» 
pen for several years. Miss Conway was 
born in Rochester, N. Y., September 6. 18.W, 
of Irish Catholic parents. She was educated 
in Catholic schools in Roche.ster and Buffalo 
until 1868, when, at the age of fifteen, her 
literary occupation began. In 1875 .she be- 
gan editing a Catholic monthly in Roches- 
ter, and continued it five years, contributing 
to other Catholic publications in spare in- 
tervals, and also serving as teacher of rhet- 
oric in a convent school. In 1878 she be- 
came attached to the " Catholic Union and 
Times, " of Buffalo, edited by the Rev. Pat- 
rick Cronin, and remained there another 
five years, when, owing to failing health, 
she retired and went to Boston for rest. In 
Boston she was invited to a position on the 
"Pilot," which she accepted, and still holds, 
exercising her bright talent in a waj' that 
must be agreeable to all readers of that 
paper. In 1881 Miss Conway published a 
vohmie of poems entitled '" On the Sunrise 
Slope," and she has since written many 
other poems which have added to her rep- 
utation. In conjunction with Clara Erskine 
Clement she prepared for publication 
" Christian Symbols," a valuable book of 
instruction upon Sacred and Legendary art, 
and under the name of " Mercedes," she 
has written a good deal of fiction, of the 
moral sort, that has been well received. 



COWAX, Samitkl R. 

One of the most prolific of the younger 
Irish |ioets is Samuel K. Cowan, a native <>l 
Lisburn. County Antrim, born August i:<. 
1850. Fom- volumes of his poems have 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



in 



boea published, and lie is the author of over 
one hundred songs, which have been set to 
nuisic by various composers, and gained 
much popularity. Mr. Cowan was educated 
at Trinitj' College, where he received the 
degree of M. A. He follows literature as a 
profession, and his work has made him well 
known in Ireland anil England. Its merit 
fully entitles him to representation in a col- 
lection of this character. An Irish clergy- 
man, writing of him to the Editor, says he 
has already gained much success, and is 
"destined to vellect credit on himself and 
Ireland." 



Ckoker, Thomas Croftox. 

Thomas Crofton Croker, who was born in 
Cork, in 1798, performed a great deal of 
valuable work as an antiquarian. Among 
his works are " Researches in the South of 
Ireland;" "Fairy Legends and Traditions 
of the South of Ireland; " " Legends of the 
Lakes;" "Historical Songs of Ireland;" 
"Popular Songs of Ireland," and several 
tales which are now no longer read. He 
was an accomplished artist as well as poet, 
and a friend of Maclise, Maginn and Father 
Prout. His original poems are good, but 
not remarkable. He held an official position 
for many years before his death, which oc- 
curred in 1854. 



Croly, George (Rev). 

A versatile and industrious writer; born in 
Dublin, 1?80; died in London, 1860; author 
of numerous works in prose and verse which 
attracted much attention m their time. 
Although educated for the Church, and tak- 
ing orders in early life. Dr. Croly did not 
actually assume clerical functions until 
1835, when the greater part of his literary 
work had been done. He then became 
rector of an Episcopal Church in England, 
and he subsequently became one of the 
most popular of pulpit orators. His versa- 
tility is indicated by the fact that he ob- 
tained distinction as a journalist, a poet, a 
novelist, a historian, a dramatist and a 
clergyman. Among his works are " Sala- 
thiel, a Story of the Past, the Present and 
the Future," " Tales of the Great St. Ber- 
nard;" "Sebastian, a Spanish Tale;" the 
" Political Life of the Right Hon. Edmund 



Burke; " " Character of Curran's Eloquence 
and Politics," "Poetical Works," " Beauties 
of English Poets," and "Cataline," a trag- 
edy. 



Cronin, Patrick (Rev.). 

Priest, poet and journalist are combined in 
the Rev. Patrick Cronin, who was born near 
the village of Adare, County Cork, Ireland, 
in March, 1837. He came to the United 
States in 1850, and made his classical studies 
in St. Louis University, and his tlieological 
studies at St. Vincent's Seminary, Cape 
Girardeau, Mo. He was ordained in 1863, 
and for some years thereafter he was en- 
gaged on the city and suburban missions of 
the archdiocese of St. Louis. Since 1874 he 
has edited the Buffalo (N. Y.) "Catholic 
Union and Times." Passionately devoted 
to the land of his birth. Father Cronin has 
been active and zealous in every American 
movement promotive of its best interests. 
He enjo3's a merited reputation as an orator, 
and he possesses the poetic gift in a high 
degree, but the duties of priest and jour- 
nalist have prevented its full cultivation. 
His graphic poem read at the Marquette 
Monument Association in 1879 was much 
admired and widelj' reproduced. 



Darley, George. 

Although the name of George Darley is now 
known only to the students of literature, it 
was a familiar one in the early part of the 
present century. Darley was born in Dub- 
lin in 1785, but the greater part of his life 
was passed in London, where he died- in 
1846. His chief poetical works were "Syl- 
via, or the May Queen," and "Errors of 
Ecstasie and Other Poems." He also wrote 
"Thomas a Becket," a tragedy, " Ethel- 
stan," a dramatic chronicle, and various 
educational works. One of the selections 
here given, " The Fairy Cavalcade," shows 
a delicate and picturesque fancy, and pleas- 
ing felicity of expression. 



Davis, Eugene. 

Clonakilty, County Cork, is the native place 
of Eugene Davis, who was born March 33, 
1857. He studied for the priesthood in Dub- 
lin, in Belgium, and in Paris, but discover- 
I ing that his inclinations were not toward a 



;8 



Bli 'OA'.t I'HIL A L XO TES. 



cleriful lire, he adopted joiirniilisni insteiid. 
Ho has been connected with the Continen- 
tiil. the Irish, and the AniPiiran pi-ess, and il 
may be said that for a man of his yejirs lie 
lias written a great deal and written well. 
In Marc-h, 1885, he was expflled from Paris, 
with the ex-Fenian chieftain, James Ste- 
phens, at the re«iiiest of the British Anibas- I 
sador. Lord Lyons, and he then took up his 
ivsidenoe in Lansimne, Switzerland. A ool- 
lection of his |)oems has been made, under 
the title of "Irish Lays and Lyrics, and 
Other Poi'ms." 



Davis, Fkami.s. 

Cork's large brotherhood of poets ini'ludes 
Francis Davis, who introduced himself in 
literatui-e as the " Belfast Man." He was 
born in Ballincollig, Cork, Starch 7, 1810, 
but in early manhood he settled in Belfast, 
where he learned the trade of a weaver. 
Many of his poems were written while he 
worked at the loom, but he also wrote sev- 
eral while traveling through England and 
Scotland. "Having made a reputation by 
his pen he became the editor of a Belfast 
newspaper, subsequently engaging in gen- 
eral literary work, and becoming a contri- 
butor to various magazines and journals. 
His poems are numerous, and have appeared 
in three successive volumes. Many are in- 
tensely patriotic, and othere show a sturdy 
pei-sonal independence characteristic of the 
writer. " Caste and Creed," for instance, 
might have been written by Burns. Mr. 
Davis was elected successively- to the posi- 
tions of Librarian in the People's Institute, 
Belfast, and Assistant Registrar in the 
Queen's College in the same place. He died 
in September, 1885. 



Davis, Thomas Osbouxk. 

The Beranger of Ireland, as Thomas O.sborne 

Davis might well be called, w;is born in 

JIallow, Coik, in 1814. Though Irish of 

j the Irish in spirit, he did not belong to the 

I Irish branch of the great Celtic family, his 

1 father being a native of Wales. The poet- 

I jjatiiot dieil in 1845, leaving a name en- 

1 deared to all his countrymen by high 

national service and the exirrciseof splendid 

I talents for the most ennobling of ends. 

I From boyhood he Wius a diligent student of 

I Irish history,and when, at the age of t-wenty- 1 



six yeam, he enteretl earnestly upon the 
brilliant literary career that was .so soon to 
end, his mind wa-s stored with knowledge to 
a degree not often equalled even in the 
ca.se of men of advanced age, as assiduous 
as he, and favored with twice his length of 
years for study. It might almost he said 
that there was nothing in the history of 
Ireland which he did not know. Prior to 
1842, when the Dublin "Xation " was estab- 
lished iis the organ of a pi-onounced national 
party, the existence of his marvellous tal- 
ent for reaching the hearts of the people 
through the medium of vei-se had not been 
suspected even by himself. He became a 
member of the '• Xation ' staff, and wrote 
some of the boldest and most valuable of 
the vigorous articles whic-h gave its columns 
a character never befoi-e known in Irish 
joiu'nalism. His real work, however, was 
yet to be done. The hitherto unsuspected 
poetical talent soon made itself manifest, 
and the fount being once opened, the 
flow from it was incessant. Poem after 
poem almost flashed from his pen. He 
needed but to fix his mind a moment on the 
theme and the impetuous thought rushed 
at once into form in lines of pure melody 
and surpassing vigor. A better illustration 
of the adage that poets are born, not made, 
has never been known than appeared in the 
almost instantaneous ascent of Davis to a 
place of honor on the Mountof the Muse.s. 
His whole soul wits in his work, and the 
patriotic fervor of his nature burned in 
the lines he wrote. His premature death 
was a sad loss to his country and its liteiii- 
ture. Had he been spared to continue the 
labor for which he was so nobly qualified, 
even a more brilliant name than the one he 
bequeathed would have been placed on the 
roll of Ireland's poets. Writing of him in 
his work entitled "Young Ireland," Charles 
Gavan Duify, j)iobably the most intimate 
of his friends, says :—" Judging of him 
now, a generation after his death, when 
yeare and conmmnion with the world have 
tempered the exaggerations of youthful 
friendship, I I'an confidently say that I have 
not known a man so nobly gifted as Thomas 
Davis Now that the trans- 
actions of that day have fallen into their 
natural pers|)ectlve, now that we know 
what luus perished and what survives of its 
conflicting opinions, we luay plainly see. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



739 



tliat imperfectly as we knew him, the Irish 
race — the grown men of 1844 — in the high- 
est (Hapason of their passions, were repre- 
sented and embodied in Thomas Davis bet- 
ter than in any man then living."' 



Dermody, Thomas. 

This eri'atic and uneven writer was born 
at Ennis, Ireland, in 1775. He possessed 
extraordinary talent, of which, however, 
owing to reckless habits, he made but 
little use. In precocity he somewhat re- 
sembled the English prodigy, Chatterton. 
At the age of ten he had accumulated a 
considerable amount of literary work, but, 
unfortunately, he had at the same age con- 
tracted the appetite that led to his early 
death. He wrote with a singular fluency 
and sometimes with remarkable power, but 
it can hardly be said that anything he pro- 
duced possessed an enduring value. He 
died in England in 1803, leaving a large 
quantity of verse, which was subsequently 
collected and published in book form. 



De Verb, Aubrey (Sir). 

The editor of the "Cabinet of Irish Liter- 
ature" says of Sir Aubrey De Vere that he 
was perhaps " best known and loved among 
the people as a good landlord, who resided 
on his estate and found pleasure in doing 
his duty to his tenants and dependants." 
The work by which he is best known in 
literature is his histoi'ical drama of "Mary 
Tudor." The merit of his poems and son- 
nets has, however, received wide recogni- 
tion. Amoug his productions of the latter 
kind are some of the best in the language. 
He enjoyed an intimate friendship with the 
poet Wordsworth, to whose example may 
be attributed — in part, at least — his fond- 
ness for the sonnet form of verse. He was 
born at Curragh Chase, Limerick, August 
28, 1788 ; and, his life having been passed 
there, he died peacefully in the same place, 
July 38, 1846. His poetical talent was in- 
herited and worthily employed by his son, 
whose career is next outlined. 



De Vere, Aubrey Thomas. 

Aubrey T. De Vere, third son of Sir Aubrey 
De Vere, was also born at Curragh Chase, 
the old family residence. Like so many 



other contributors to the poetical treasures 
of Ireland, he was educated at Trinity Col- 
lege, where his course was mai-kefl by assi- 
duous study. He manifested literary tastes 
from the beginning, and was a close student 
of religious works. Nearly all his poems 
show a devotional spirit, and many are en- 
tirely religious in character. They are 
elevated in motive and artistic in finish, 
and maybe desci-ibed as belonging to poetry 
of the higher class. He published a long 
poem entitled " The Waldenses, or the Fall 
of Lora," in 1843 ; "The Search after Pro- 
serpine,"' in the following year ; " Poems, 
Miscellaneous and Sacred," in 1856 ; " May 
Carols," a volume of beautiful hymns to 
the Virgin, in 1857; " The Sisters Inisfail 
and Other Poems" in 1861; "Irish Odes 
and Other Poems" in 1869; "The Legends 
of St. Patrick" in 1873, and a dramatic 
poem, "Alexander the Great," in 1874. 
Had he been an English instead of an Irish 
poet, there is no doubt that Aubrey De 
Vere would be more widely read. Several 
of his Irish poems are of the epic order. 
Wliile not revealing any special force, they 
are excellent examples of careful literary 
work. His style i& scholarly rather than 
popular, but his claim to the rank of a true 
poet cannot be called in question. He was 
born in 1814 and he died in 1883. 



De Vere, Mary Ainge. 

Concerning the personality of this gifted 
and admirable writer, it is sufficient to say 
that she is of Irish parentage, and a native 
and resident of Brooklyn, N. Y. She has 
been for some years a contributor of poems 
to the leading magazines, and her name is 
already entered among those of favorite 
American poets. That she should also be 
placed in the company of Irish-American 
poets is manifestly proper. Her poems 
possess the excellent qualities of natural- 
ness, simplicity and melody. The favor 
with which they have been received, and 
which is attested by their wide republica- 
tion, is obviouslv well deserved. 



Donnelly, Eleanor C. 

Miss Eleanor C. Donnelly is a native and 
resident ot Pliiladelphia, Pa. She is of Irish 
parentage and was born in 1848. Literature 
is to her a regular and enjoyable occupation. 



:40 



BIOGRAPHICAL XOTES. 



She has been known tor many yeare as a 
prolific and accomplished writer. Much of 
her poetry is i-eli(fious in character and of 
high rank in point of merit. She has pub- 
lished several volumes of poems, and all 
have been well received. Catholic legends 
and the lessons of faith are her favorite 
themes. She writes with much facility and 
always in an elevated spirit. The author of 
a iiei-sonal sketch in a recent Catholic peri- 
odical says of her : " Born of the blessed 
Irish race, she has inherited its gifts and 
gi'aces in a s|)ecia! manner. Her faith and 
her people are the whole of her life : and 
her people are all lovinj souls who know 
her God. Personally, Miss Donnelly is a 
very womanly presence. She luis soft, 
brown hair, Irish eyes, and an expressive, 
mobile mouth, which suits lier pleasant 
voice and glad, gentle manner. She talks 
well and easily, very easily, and with that 
command of words her writings prove ! " It 
may be added that she is a sister of the Hon. 
Ignatius Donnelly, of Minnesota. 



nard," brought him into notice immediately 
aft<'r its api)earance, in 1879. Before going 
to London he was connected with the Dublin 
" Nation." and he was also for a short time 
the editor of the comic periodical, " Zozi- 
mus." His efforts in verse are graceful, 
but not numerous. 



DOWDEX, EDWAKD. 

This accomplished essayist and pieasmg 
poet was born in Cork in 1843, and educated 
at Trinity College, wliere he subsequently 
became Professor of English Literature. 
He is best known by his elaborate studies of 
Shakspeare, which have taken a place 
among the standard classics of Shakspeurian 
literature. Mr. Dowden's poems, all short, 
and chiefly sonnets, may be described as of 
the artistic order. They arc marked by a 
neatness of finish suggestive of highly pol- 
ished gems. While full of a delicate beauty, 
however, they contain much fine thought, 
and show not a little spiritual elevation. 
Like much that comes from the new school 
of poetry, they are suggestive rather than 
expressive, and need some study in order 
that their merit may be fully perceived. 



Dowxixu, Ellen. 

' 'Mary of tlie Nation," was a term of aCTection 
in li-cland at the time when the "Nation" 
was the poetical voice of the country. The 
writer designated by it was Miss EUlen 
Downing, who used the nom de jilume. of 
" Mary," and became widely known under 
it. She was a Munster lady, of gentle char- 
acter and ai-dent patriotism, who gfave 
heart and soul to the Young Ireland cause. 
Her |>oems are marked by fervor, graphic 
power, and a winning sweetness. A ten- 
der and satl story told of her is touchingly 
echoed by her poem " Were I but His own 
Wife." It is said that she became deeply 
attached to one of the most gifted of the 
Young Ireland leaders, and hoped to be his 
wife. He was obliged to leave the counti'v, 
the vows he had made were forgotten, and 
the dreams of the sweet singer were dis- 
pelled. She subsequently bec;vme a reli- 
geuse in Cork, under the name of Sister 
Mary Alphonsus, but after a few yeare she 
passed quietly to the gi-ave. 



DowLixG, Richard. 

It is chiefly as a novelist that Richard Dow- 
ling has made a literary name. He was 
born in Clonmel, Ireland, in 1846, but for 
several years past he has lived in London, 
where his pen is constantly employed. His 
best known novel, "The Mvsterv of Kin- 



Drennan, William. 

The most notable poem written by Dr. 
Drennan is the one entitled "Erin." The 
author was an ardent patriot, of the period 
of the United Irishmen, greatly esteemed for 
brilliant talents and sterling character. The 
term " Emerald Isle," was fii-st applied to 
Ireland by him. Alluding toil many yeai-s 
later he said : "From the frequent use of 
the term since that time, I fondly hope it 
will gradually become associated with the 
name of my country, as descriptive of the 
primal beautj- and inestimable worth of 
Ireland." The poet's hope has been fully 
realized. He was born in Belfast, in 1754, 
his father being a minister of the Presby- 
terian Church, and he died in the same city 
in 1820. A small voliune of his poems was 
l)ublished in isi.'i. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



741 



Drum:jond, William H. (Rev.). 

Au eminent scliolai- and distinguished Con- 
gregational clergyman ; born at Larne, An- 
trim, in 1778 ; died in Dublin. 1865 ; wrote 
several liistorical and imaginative poems, 
numerous essays and some valuable biogra- 
phies, and publislied interesting transla- 
tions from the Irish under the title of "An- 
cient Irish Minstrelsy." Through all his 
long life his inclinations were stiongly 
patriotic. 



DrFFKRiN, Lady. 

Helen Selina Sheridan (Lady Dnfferin), one 
of the three daughters of Thomas Sheri- 
dan, son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
was born in 1807. Her sisters were the 
Hon. Mi-s. Norton and the Duchess of Som- 
erset. At the age of eighteen she became 
the wife of Mr. Blackwood, afterward Lord 
Dufferin, and in 1836 her only son, the pres- 
ent Earl of Dufferin, diplomatist and author, 
was born. Her poems are not numerous, 
but one, at least, " The Irish Emigrant's 
Lament," is unsurpassed for simplicity and 
tenderness. Her song "Katey's Letter," 
and the answer, " Sweet Kilkenny Town," 
have the same quality, coupled with a strain 
of humor that is distinctively Irish. After 
remaining a widow twenty-one years, lier 
first husband having died in 1841, Lady 
Dufferin married the Earl of Gifford a short 
time before his death. Her own death oc- 
curred Jane 13, 1867. 



Duffy, Charles Gavax (Sir). 

The national literature and the political 
progress of Ireland owe much to Charles 
Gavan Duffy. It was mainly under his 
guidance, as chief editor of the "Nation," 
which, in conjunction with Thomas Davis 
and John B. Dillon, he founded in 1843, 
that the splendid politico-literary campaign 
precedingthe " Forty-eight" movement was 
conducted. Born in Monaghan in 1816, he 
carried to Dublin, whitlier he went as a 
lad, to become connected with the " Morn- 
ing Register," much of the energy and de- 
liberation for whicli men of the North of 
Ireland have been distinguished. Under 
his direction the '■ Nation" attracted nearly 
all the spirited literary talent of the coun- 
try, and became a greater moral power in 



political affairs than Ii-eland had before 
known. Among the writers thus drawn to- 
gether and combined in a single force were 
Davis, McGee, Mangan, Williams, McCar- 
tliy, " Speranza," and many others aglow 
with patriotic fervor. The "Nation's" 
sturdy nationalism incurred, as might be 
expected, the displeasure of the Govern- 
ment, and in 1844 its editor had the honor 
of being tried with O'Connell for fomenting 
disloyalty. In 1848 the paper was forcibly 
suppressed, and Mr. Duffy was subjected 
to four successive trials, each resulting in 
a failure to convict. After these failures 
he revived the " Nation" and continued as 
its editor a few yeai-s, when, becoming some- 
wliat dislieartened in the national cause, he 
retired from the post he had tilled with signal 
ability, and emigrated to Australia. His 
rapid political rise in tliat country, whei'e 
he held the position of Speaker of the Leg- 
islative Assembly, and also that of Prime 
Minister, simply demonstrated his remarka- 
ble intellectual force. In 1873 he accepted 
the distinction of knighthood, which he 
had previously dechned. A few years later 
he returned to Eurojie, and he has since oc- 
cupied his time with the production of au 
instructive work entitled "Young Ireland," 
and some interesting personal reminis- 
cences of that brilliant period. All his 
poems were written in his earlier years. 
He then gave evidence of the possession of 
promising poetical talent, but it is on his 
prose writings and his political activity that 
his reputation will rest. 



Egan, Maurice Francis. 

Tliere is no better evidence of merit tlian its 
geneial recognition, and this has been given 
in a large degree to the work of one of the 
younger Irish-American writers, Maurice 
Francis Egan, at the present time editor of 
the New York " Freeman's Journal." Mr. 
Egan was born in Philadelphia, Pa., May 
34, 1853. He received his education at La 
Salle College, in that city, and afterwards 
taught at the well-known Georgetown Col- 
lege, Washington, D.C. Being of Irish 
Catholic parentage, it is natural that his in- 
clinations and sympathies are somewhat 
positively in accord with those of the race 
to which he belongs, and the religion in 
which he was reared. His first publication 



742 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



in book-form was a modest volume of npat 
and f^raceful poems, to which the newspaper 
press ^ave a cordial greeting;. Thes(? have 
since been reprinted in London, and their 
reception there has also been friendly and 
appivciative. Before becoming- known as 
an author, Mr. Egan wrote a number of 
short stories, which appeared in the niagti- 
zines, and these, with .some of more recent 
pi-oduction, have latisly been put together in 
a book, under tlie title of "The r..ife Around 
Us." They reveal a t;ilent for story-telling 
which has also been as widely recognized. 
A thiitl publication is a small volume of 
thoughtful studies on the 'Theatre and 
Christian Parents," in which the projter uses 
of the stage are brightly and intelligently 
discussed. Mr. Egan is a man of thought as 
well of artistic accomplishment. ^ The work 
he has already done promises well for his 
future, and it i,s reasonably certain that his 
name will stand among those of American 
authors who reflect credit on their country. 
But while thoroughly American, he is always 
mindful of his origin, and grateful that the 
blood in liis veins is both Irish and Catholic. 



English, Thomas Dunn. 

Although Dr. Thomas Dunn English is less 
an Irish- American than an American of Irish 
descent, he is not only fairly, but well enti- 
tled to a place in a book of this character. 
His father was of Irish lineage, being de- 
scended from an Irish settler who made a 
home in New Jersey nearly a century before 
the American Revolution, and his mother 
w,^s of Irish birth. He himself married an 
Irish-American wife, and he has always 
taken an active interest in Irish affairs, and 
shown a sincere sympathy with the Irish 
people. The family name was originally 
Angelos, from which it became "Angli- 
cized " to its ijresent form. It went to Ire- 
land with the Nornuin sottlei-s, of whom it 
is said that they became more Irish than the 
Irish themselves. Dr. English was born in 
Philadelphia, Pa., June 39. 1819. In 1839, 
he was graduated from tiie Univei'sity of 
Pennsylvania with the degree of Doctor of 
Medicme. In 1843 he was cjiUed to the bar, 
but his inclinations being toward literature, 
he ma*le no effort lo advance in the legal 
profession. He did, however, follow medi- 
cine, and he has been a practicing physician 



many yeare. On July 4th, 1876, the great 
American Centenary, he was honored with 
the degi'ee of Doctor of Laws by the vener- 
able William and Mary College, of Virginia. 
His literary work, commenc-ed in boyhood, 
has extended over a period of half acentuiy. 
Forty j'ears ago he was editor of a |>aper 
called the "Irish Citizen," and published 
in New York. He has written |X)ems, 
novels, tales, plays, etc., innumerable, be- 
sides a number of oontrovei-sial |>amphlet» 
and essays. His lli-st metrical success 
was the ballad "Ben Bolt," printed in the 
New York " Mirror" in 1843. No less than 
eight ail's wei-e composed for " Ben Bolt," 
which gained great popularity and became 
a folk-song on both sides of the Atlantic 
The author never thought as much of it, 
however, as the public. In a note to the 
present Editor, he says : " An unlucky thing, 
somehow. They named a Western steam- 
boat and an Eastern sailing-ship after it. 
The steamer was blown up and I ho ship went 
down." Among his best known productions 
is a series of American historical ballads, 
which have appeared from time to time in 
various periodicals. These, with others, 
forming a complete battle-ballad history of 
the United States from the Colonial period 
down, have lately been published in collec- 
tive form. All his battle poems are strong, 
ringing and picturesque, j'et they do not 
show the author at his best. Such [loems 
as "Kallimais" and "Akeratos"are supe- 
rior to them when judged by literary mle. 
" Akeratos " will be found in this volume. 
Dr. English has resided in New Jersey over 
twenty yeai-s. He has taken an active part 
in public alTairs, and served two terms in 
the Legislature of that State. 



Farrki,!-. Joseph (Rkv.). 

Dying at the ;vge of forty-four years, the 
Rev. Joseph Farrell left behind him some 
excellent litei-ary work, chiefly in prose. 
A collection of delightfully written medita- 
tive ess;iys by him, under the title of "Lec- 
tures of a certain Professor," was published 
in London, and received much favorable 
notice. He also wrote a number of i)oems, 
.some |X)ssessing very distinct merit, but most 
of them are scattered through the pivges of 
periodiciils. He was born at Maryboraugh, 
Queen's County, in 1841, educated at Car- 



niOGRAPHlCAL NOTES. 



743 



low ami Maynootli, ami ordained a priest 
in 1865. His death in the eai-ly part of 18S5 
was deeply regretted by a larg'e number of 
friends, who held his character and talents 
in high esteem. 



Fkrgusox, Samuel (Sir). 

Sir Samuel Ferg-uson, one of the most vig- 
orous and picturesque of modern poets, was 
born m Belfast in 1810, and educated in 
Trinity College, Dublin. Having prepared 
liiniself for the bar, he was adiuitted thereto 
in 1838, and he followed the legal profession 
fill 1867. when he i-etired to accept the office 
of Deputy Keeper of the Records of Ire- 
land. In 1879 he received the distinction of 
knighthood, in i-ecognition of his literary 
and professional merit. It may be said of 
Samuel Ferguson that he was the contem- 
porary of all the Irish poets of the century. 
He began writing while Moore was still 
cliai'ming the world with his unrivalled 
melody, and he continued it down to the 
time wlien the distinction just named was 
conferred upon him. He wrote with a free, 
strong hand, a heart tlioiduulily in sympa- 
thy with his country, ami a mind .splendidly 
stored with the riches of her ancient litera- 
ture. His service to the literature of Ire- 
land is of the liighest value. He pursued 
his studies of the old Irisli volumes in the 
company of such scholars as LordO'Hagan, 
John O'Donovan, Eugene Ciu'ry and George 
Petrie, and fi-om the stores of material — 
historical and tradition.il — then acquired, 
his fine constructive faculty created some of 
the noblest of modern poems. His " Lays 
of the Western Gael," his epics -'Deirdre," 
"Conary" and "Congal,'" and his numerous 
ballads and lyrics, all throbbing with action 
and glowing- with color, comprise a special 
and invaluable contribution to the litera- 
ture of the century. His tiunslations from 
the Irish bards are said by Irish scholars to 
be marked by a faithfulness that makes 
them almost absolutely literal, and his 
epics, all vigorous and well sustained, are 
conceived in the spirit of the far-oil time in 
which their scenes are laid. Strength is tlie 
obvious characteristic of his verse, but the 
words are always well chosen, tlie rythm 
sonorous and free, and the thought direct 
and clear. All his poems may be searclied 
in vain for anj' sign of mere convention- 



ality. "The Forging of the Anchor " was 
the first of his productions to attract notice 
outside of his own country. Fifty years 
after its original appearance it was repub- 
lished in London as a single book, where- 
upon a critic of that town, "recognized"' 
Samuel Ferguson as a writer of considera- 
ble promise, and was kind enough to say 
tliat he probably would make liis mark in 
time. The poet was then past his seven- 
tieth year, and had made his mark doubtless 
before the critic was born. But it is an old 
story that English critics do not trouble 
themselves to know much about Irish au- 
thors. When Ireland again has a recog- 
nized national literature, much credit will 
be due to Samuel Fei'guson for preparing- 
tlie way for it. He died in Dublin, Au- 
gust 10, 1886. 



FORRKSTER, ElLEX. 

Mrs. Ellen Forrester was born at Anvalla, 
County Monahan, Ireland, in 1831. Many 
of her years were passed in Manchester, 
England, and her death occurred there in 
1883. Mrs. Forrester's poems gained much 
favor in her native country, and also among 
the Irish people in England, as well as those 
in America, chiefly through an unaflected 
simplicity that appeals directly to the pop- 
ular heart and understanding. This char- 
acteristic is especially marked in "The 
Widow's Message to her Son," a poem 
widely reprinted on both sides of the Atlan- 
tic. Nearly all her themes are taken from 
what is called eveiy-day life, and their treat- 
ment shows a warm and earnest sympathy 
with the poor and lowly, to wlioni no other 
life is known. Being kept close to these by 
her own necessities, she shared their feel- 
ings, and her verse was often the voice of 
both their sorrows and their desires Mrs. 
Forrester left two children, a son and a 
daughter, who have inherited her literary 
gift. Her son, Arthur M. Forrester, was 
born at Ballytrain, County Monaghan, in 
1850. He became an active contributor to 
the Irish national press, and also to news- 
papers in England. At the present time he 
is attached to the "Irish Worhl " in New 
York. His sister, Fanny Forrester, was 
born in Manchester, in 1853, and still lives 
in England. Although her poems are not 
so well-known as those of her mother, she 



744 



has writtni a coiisidei'ulili.' nunibei-, and 
some have receiveil theconipliiiK-iit of \teing 
repioduceil in vai-ious i>lacos. A volume 
pubhshetl by Mi-s. Forrester some time be- 
fore her death coiitiiiiiiMl lierown |>ocnis and 
several by her son and daughter. 



HIOGHAPHICAL NOTES. 



Fraser, John 1)k Jkax. 

Born in Birr, Kings County, in 1809 ; died 
in 1849. Jlost of his poems appeared over 
the name of J. de Jean. He was by trade a 
cabinet-niaUer, whence arose the appella- 
tion he received of the " Poet of the Work- 
shop." His verees, nevertheless, relate 
mainly to scenery and political subjects. A 
collection of his works, entitled "Poems for 
the People," was published in Dublin sever- 
al yeai-s ago. His place among the minor 
poets of Ireland is creditable. ■ 



FlRLOXG, Thoma.s. 

A native of Wexfoi-d county ; born in 1794 ; 
died in 1837. He obtained a fair education 
solely by his own efforts, acquired a knowl- 
edge of the Irish language, and made a 
good translation of the poems of Carolan. 
He w;is a friend of O'Connell and an active 
worker in the Emancipation movement. 
Among othei's whose friendship was useful 
to him were Thomas Moore and Lady Mor- 
gan. His best literary work appears in Ids 
translations. 



(talla»hkr, AVilliam 1). 

Philadelphia, Pa., is the native place of 
William Davis Gallagher, whose father, 
Bernard Gallagher, took part in the insur- 
rection of '9S, and emigrated to America 
soon after its failure. Mr. Gallagher was 
born in 1808. After his fathers death, and 
while still a boy, he removed with his 
mother to Cincinnati, where he foiuid em- 
ployment in theoflice of the fii'st newspaper 
published in that city. He learned the 
trade of a printer, and later became a writer 
upon miscellaneous subjects, and a con- 
tributor to various literary papers, maga- 
zines and reviews. During the war between 
the North and South, he held some impor- 
tant |>ositions of trust under the Federal 
Government. His poems relate chiefly to 
the West, which was almost an unknown 
country when he settled upon the Ohio. A 



colle<!tion of them was published in Cincin- 
nati in 1881, under the title of '•Miami 
AVoods and other Poems." His literary 
work is extensive and all carefully done. 

(iKOGHEGAX, ArTHI H GkKAI.1). 

It has not often hap|M>ned that an author's 
personality remained unknown to the gen- 
eral public for fully a generation after his 
work had received wide recognition. This 
has, however, been the case with Arthm- 
Gerald Geoghegan, author of "The Monks 
of Kilcrea," and anumber of spirited histo- 
rical ballads. Most of the first generation 
of i-eadei-s of his poems had passed away be- 
fore his name as the author became publicly 
known. His principal poem, the one ju-l 
named, constructed on a plan sinular U> 
that subsequently adopted by Longfellow 
for his "Tales of a Wayside Inn." had been 
translated and extensivelj' read on the Con- 
tinent long before his identity was revealed. 
Mr. Geoghegan was born in Dublin early in 
the century, and the greater part of his lit- 
erary work was done in that city. For a 
number of yeai-s past, however, his home 
has been in London, where his pen has not 
been by any means idle. Even in his a<l- 
vanced yeare it finds exercise in the field 
that was his favorite in early life. It may as 
well be said in this place as elsewhere, that 
Mary (Jeoghegan, a few of whose poems 
appear in this book, is his daughter. She 
evidently inherits no small part of her fa- 
ther's excellent talent. 

Geoghk&ax, William. 

William Geoghegan wius born at B.illyma- 
hon, county Longfoitl, Irelanil. in 1844, and 
has been a i-esidentof New York since 1861. 
As .1 contributor of prose and vei-se to vari- 
ous Irish- American publications he is well 
and favorably known. His poems are 
mainly retrospective and find their motive 
chiefly in pastoral and domestic tliemes. 
Being engaged in business, he luis but little 
time for literary occupation. 



OlLMORK, MiXNIK. 

Minnie Gilmore is a daughter of the well- 
known musician, Patrick Sai-sfield Gilmore, 
and a native of Boston, Ma.ss. Her fii-st 
communings with the Muse appeared in the 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



745 



coUimns of the Boston "Pilot." Hevpoenis 
possess a warmth of coloi-ing and a rythmic 
freedom wliich please the sense and show 
talent for tlie expression of bright thought 
in clear and picturesque verse. A volume 
of them published in 1886 was well received 
by the press. As Miss Gilmore is still 
young, it maj' be assumed that the literary 
work she has already done is but a begin- 
ning. 



Goldsmith, Oliver. 

There is but little need of giving here even 
tlio briefest sketch of Oliver Goldsmith, who 
has been the subject of essay, lecture and 
biography imtil everything that could be 
said about him is exhausted. A son of the 
Rev. Charles Goldsmith, a minister of the 
Established Church, he was born at Pallas, 
or Pallasmore, County Longford, in 1728, 
and he died in London in 1774. The diffi- 
culties attending his education have been 
pleasantly described by himself and others. 
He contrived, however, to get through Dub- 
lin University, and he set out soon after for 
the Continent, with almost empty pockets, 
but a light heart and a .serene confidence in 
all things turning out for the best. He had 
an idea of teaching English in Holland, but 
when lie arrived there and found that he 
could not make Jiimself understood, it 
dawned upon him that he should first have 
learned the language of the people he was 
to teach. His life in London, prior to tlie 
discovery of his genius bj' Dr. Samuel John- 
son, who was thenceforward his life-long 
friend, was that of a drudge, who often suf- 
fered for lack of food. He was employed 
chiefly as a litei'ary hack, and the pay that 
his work commanded was e.Kceedingly 
small. When Johnson came to his relief he 
was a prisoner under the ej-e of the woman 
from whom he had hired lodgings, because 
he was unable to pay for them. Although, 
mainly by the aid of Johnson, he soon 
emerged from poverty, he frequently re- 
lapsed into embarrassment ; for he had no 
knack of saving monej', and all the sums he 
received for poems, plays, essays or histori- 
cal works slipped from his fingers at once, 
-so that he was often in debt when he should 
have been in comfort. John.son's epitaph 
describes him as "Poet, Naturalist and His- 
torian, who left scarcely any kind of writing 



vmtouched, and touched nothing that lie did 
not adorn." The monument bearing this 
inscription, and more to the same purpose, 
stands in Westminster Abbey. No poet has 
left a dearer memory than simple, gentle, 
always amiable Oliver Goldsmith. 



Graves, Alfred Pkrcival. 

Alfred Percival Graves belongs to the 
younger class of Irish poets, and while, in 
the treatment of his favorite themes, he is 
essentially racy of the soil, his style is more 
modern than that of most other poets who 
have found inspiration at the same source. 
He is a son of the Episcopal Bishop of Lim- 
erick, and was born in Dubhn, in 1846. Al- 
though much of his writing has been done 
in England, it shows that the Ii-ish impres- 
sions which he took thither have not been 
effaced by the change from the mountains 
of Wicklow and Kerry to the streets of Lon- 
don. He is especially happy as a writer of 
peasant songs, which are at once graceful, 
melodious and simple. Though lacking the 
brisk humor of Lever, his songs have a deli- 
cate playfulness of their own that has 
gained them much popularity. They are 
quaint, merry and musical, and almost sing 
themselves. That he can also write in the 
pathetic vein is shown by the touching spirit 
of "The Black Forty-six," "The Wreck of 
the Aideen," and others among his more se- 
rious poems. He has published two vol- 
umes, "Songs of Killarney," and "Irish 
Songs and Ballads," and the titles as well as 
the contents of his books show that he is 
quite willing to be known as an Irish poet. 
Outside of literature, his occupation is that 
of an Inspector of Schools. 



Gray, Ja>"e L. 

In the "Female Poets of America," edited 
by Mr. Griswold, Mrs. Jane L. Gray is de- 
■ scribed as " a daughter of William Lewers, 
Esquire, of Castle Clancy, in the north of 
Ireland," She was born in 1800, and was 
educated in a Moravian Seminary, near Bel- 
fast. At an eai-ly age she was married to 
the Rev. John Gray, with whom she emi- 
grated to America, and settled at Easton, 
Pa., where Dr. Gray became well known as 
the pastor of a Presbyterian Church. The 
poems of Mi-s. Gray are chiefly of a religious 



746 



lilOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



clmi-aotfr. She wrote wlmlly from 
experience ami devotional feeliiiy:. 



rRIFKIX. liKRALD. 
The hrief life of Gei-.iKl Ciiiffln, jioet, novel- 
ist and dramatist, was one of bright promise 
and notable performance. He was born in I 
Limerick in 1803, and his death occurred in i 
the Monastery of the Christian Brothers in , 
Cork, in 1840. Having been intended foi- 
the medical profession, he received a good 
education, which proved valuable in the lit-; 
er.iry pursuits he adopted while yet hardly 
out of boyhood. His tiret ambilious effort, 
made at the age of nineteen, was a drama, 
entitled " Aguii-e." In the following year he 
wrote the play of "Gisippus," which obtain- 
ed much success in London, and drew atten-, 
tion to the remarkable talent of -the youthful 
author. Dramatic literature, however, was 
not so much to his taste as fiction and po- 
etry, and its field was soon abandoned. At 
the age of twenty-live, the best A his works, 
the admirable story of "The Collegians," 
from which Mr. Boucicault, many years 
later, adapted his |K>pular drama of " The 
Colleen Bawn,"' was produced. Thenceforth 
for a few yeai-s, till failing health and some 
keen disap|>ointments discouraged him in 
the struggle of life, he was one of the most 
prolilic writers of his time. Both prose and 
vei-se came rapidly from his pen, and he 
gave promise of gaining a place among au- 
thore of the highest distinction. Notwith- 
standing both talent and industry, however, 
he found it dirticult to earn suflicient money 
for decent maintenance. His experience 
with iniblishers was often unsatisfactory, 
and he complained much of unjust treats 
ment, doubtless not without reason. Be- 
loming weary of his work and of the world 
at the age of thirty-five, and finding that 
his health had suffered from the strain of 
almost incessant mental effort, he entered 
the Order of Christian Brothei-s in 1838, sad 
in spirit and feeble in body, and with less 
than two years of life still remaining to him. 
The most popular of his poems, " The Sister 
of Charity," w;is suggested by one of his 
sistei-s becoming a rcUgeusiewX, an early age. 
Purity of thought is a leiuling quality of 
both his fiction and his vei-se. His nature 
was shy and sensitive, and deeply tinged 
with religious feeling. | 



(illXKY, LOIISK LmOGKX. 

The quick ivcognition given by the literary 
pi-ess to the little volume of poems entitled 
"Songs at the Start," published by Miss 
Ouiney in May, 1S84, was an unusual trib- 
ute to so young a writer. Miss Guiney was 
born in Boston, JIass., in January, 1861. 
Her father, General Patrick Guiney. wiis a 
native of Parkstown, County Tipperar)', anil 
a gallant soldier in the war between the 
North and South. Her poetical inclina- 
tions began to manifest themselves in child- 
hood, and her talent was well developed be- 
foi-e the age at which mariy writei's liegin. 
Her lii-st published verees appeared anony- 
mously in the Boston " Pilot," but their 
mei'it soon caused sufficient inquiry about 
the writer to bring her into notice. It was 
only a few years later that she was honored 
by being invited to write the memorial poem 
for the public .services in commemoration 
of General Grant in her native city. Poetry 
is not, however, her only litei-ary pursuit. 
She has written much bright and agreeable 
prose, which shows tiusle, judgment and in- 
telligent insight. Her father's family was 
originally Fi-ench, but in Ireland it became 
most thoroughly Irish. 



Halpixe, Charlks Graham. 

What can be said here about Charles G. Hal- 
pine must necessarily be imperfect as a 
sketch of his work and character. The genial 
poet, soldier and journalist w;is born near 
Old-castle, in the County of Mcath, in 1829. 
He was a son of the Rev. Nicholas J. Halpine, 
an Episco]xil clergyman of marked ability, 
and for many years editor of the Dublin 
" Evening Mail," and his first lilei-arj' work 
was in the form of contributions to the 
Irish press He soon removed to London, 
where it was continued, and then to the 
United States, where his fame was to be 
made. His regular entnince into journal- 
ism took place in Boston, and in the course 
of his newspaper career he was connected 
with the Boston " Post," New York 
"Times," " Herald," "Tribune," "Leader," 
(of which he was for some time the editor), 
and the " Citizen," which he established. 
His humorous poems fii-st attracted notice 
during the civil war, but he had written in 
the same vein some yeai's before, and quite 
as well as after he had become known as 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



747 



" Miles O'Reill.v." At the beginning ot the 
wai- he joined the well-known Sixty-Ninth 
New York Regiment, with tlie I'ank of heu- 
tenant, and his advance in miUtary knowl- 
edge was so rapid that In a short time he re- 
ceived an appointment as adjutant-general 
on the staff ot General David Hunter. It was 
while serving in that capacity that he intro- 
duced "Private Miles O'Reilly " to the public, 
and so cleverly was the character sustained 
that for a considerable time the poetical and 
humorous private was supposed to he a real 
personage. During the latter part of tlie 
war he was on the staff of General John A. 
Dix, in New York city. Wishing to do 
something toward cleansing New York pol- 
itics he established the "Citizen " as an inde- 
pendent weekly paper, some time after tlie 
war. and his work in its columns, following 
the general good will he had gained by the 
Miles O'Reilly lyrics, made him so popular 
that when he became a candidate for the 
office of Register he was elected by an over- 
whelming majority. One of his best poems, 
that addressed to the Irish Legion, was 
written in the last week of his life and was 
the last work of his pen. Among his senti- 
mental poems, of which there are many, 
some of very sweet and simple tenderness, 
the most charming is " Janette's Hair," a 
song with music and exquisite beauty in 
each line. He died ftt the age of thirty- 
nine, from an accidental over-use of chloro- 
form, in the fullness of his mental power, 
and with the path to greater distinction 
open before him. Shortly after his death 
his poems were collected by his friend, Mr. 
Robert B. Roosevelt, and published by Har- 
per & Brothers. From this collection the 
selections in this volume are made, by per- 
mission of the publishers. 



HARDIJ.G, Edward. 

Edwai-d Harding was born in Dublin, in 
1849. He removed to Cork, and at the 
present time he is a Justice of the Peace at 
Westview, in that county. Although his 
poems do not belong to the ambitious class, 
they are graceful and pleasing, and have 
been received with a good deal ot favor 



Holmes, Edmund G. A. 

Few of the younger poets have done bet- 
ter work than Edmund Gore Alexandei 



Holmes, who was born near Athlone, Coun- 
ty Westmeath, July 17, 1850. His father, 
Robert Holmes, was widel.y known in West- 
meath, and his mother belonged to the old 
familj' named Henn, of the County Clare — 
one of whom, Jonathan Henn, defended 
O'Connell in his famous trial. Mr. Holmes 
has published two volumes ot poems in 
London, and although a stranger to the re- 
viewers, his productions have been well 
received. It may indeed be said that tliey 
have met with an unusual meed of praise in 
high literai-y quartei-s. He appeai-s to liave 
a special talent for what is sometimes called 
landscape poetry. He is at ease with na 
ture, and he not onlj' paints her moods, but 
Interprets her mysteries with graceful and 
sj'mpathetic skill. His descriptive poems 
are rich in coloring and beautifully pictur- 
esque. Most of his years have been passed 
in England, and for some time past he has 
held the position of an Inspector of Schools 
in that country. 



Hughes, John (Most Rev.). 

New York's famous fii-st Archbishop, the 
Most Rev. John Hughes, was born at An- 
naloghan, County Tyrone, Irelanil, June 24, 
1797. During his college days at Enimits- 
burg, Md., he wrote a number of poems, 
which appeared in a newspaper called the 
"Centinel," published at Chambersbui-g, 
Pa. The author's identity was concealed 
under the pseudonym of " Leauder.'' In 
view of his subsequent great carec;r as a 
Churchman, it is somewhat singular that 
only one of his poems was of a religious 
character. The two given in this collection 
are presented chiefly as evidence of his prom- 
ise in verse-making in his early years. Arch- 
bishop Hughes died in New York, January 
3, 1864. 



Ingram, John Kells. 

Not many Irish national poems have gained 
more popularity' than " The Memory of the 
Dead." Although ori-inally published 
anonymously, it is known to have been 
written by John Kells Ingram, for some 
years past a professor in Trinity College, 
Dublin. Mr. Ingi-am was born about 1830, 
and is, we believe, a native of the Irish cap- 
ital. It is said that in late years he has not 



■4S 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



dcsiiwl to claim the poem, but he certainl 
has no good reason to disown it 



iRwix, Thomas Caitlkikld. 

Tliomxs Caulfielil Irwin is tlie author of 
four volumes of jjoems, a larg-e number of 
tajps and sketches, and instructive essays on 
numerous subjects. His style is chaste and 
scholarly, and his talents have been indus- 
triously exercised for good pui-|>oses. He 
was born at Warrensport, County Down, 
May 4, 1823. his father, Thomas Irwin, being 
a physician of repute. He i-eceived a su- 
perior education, including a thorough 
knowledge of the cla-ssic-s and acquaintance 
with several continental languages, and 
was thus well prepared for the literary 
career upon which he entered at an early age. 
By his industry with the ppn he had made 
a rei)Utation before reaching his thirtieth 
year. He w.is a contributor to the " Na- 
tion " in the time of Davis and Mangan, anil 
also, for many years, to the " Dublin Uni- 
vereity Magazine."' Owing to the complete- 
ness of his education, his knowledge has a 
wide range, and there are but few subjects 
on which he has not written with interest 
anil intelligence. Although not belonging 
to the National school, in the sense in which 
it would be said that Davis and nearly all 
the young Ireland writei-s belonged to it, 
ilr. Irwin is widely esteemed as a poet of 
high merit, his poems showing a pleasing 
blending of gentleness, pathos, kindly phil- 
ospliy and amiable humor. Probably the 
most popular of his poems is the " Potato 
Digger's Song," but this, although very hap- 
py in its phrasing throughout, is, in literary 
quality, below the averag'e of his work. 



in Ireland. Dr. Joyce mode many tours in 
various parts of the country, and it was 
during that period that his mind absorbed 
the store of history, tradition and legend 
which qualified him so well for his subse- 
quent poetical work. His first book of 
poems appeared in 18«1, under the title of 
"Ballads. Romances, Songs." In 18(!8 he 
published "Legends of the Ware in Ire- 
land ;" in 1871 " Iri.sh Fireside Tales," and 
in 1873 " Ballads of Irish Chivalry." Before 
the apjiearance of "Deii-dre," in 1875, his 
reputation as a poet was chiefly local, but 
that admii-able poem attracted so much at- 
tention .-md was so warmly praised by the 
press that his merit obtained quick recog- 
nition on both sides of the Atlantic. It is 
unquestionably one of the fresjicst and most 
di-amatic epics of modern times. It is 
founded on the old romance of "The Fate 
of the Children of Usna," which inspired 
a fine poem with the same title by Sam- 
uel Fei-guson. "Blanid," which appeared 
in 1879, was also well received, but did not 
excite quite so much interest as " Dierdre." 
One of its charms is a profusion of exquisite 
lyrics, so full of melody that each seems to 
make music for itself. Soon after the pub- 
lication of " Blanid," Dr. Joyce's health be- 
gan to fail, and in 1883, only a few months 
before his death, he sailed for Ireland, in the 
hope that rest and his native air would 
make him well again. This, however, was 
not to be. A poet of positive worth was 
lost by his death, which occurred in Dublin. 
He was a man of ardent patriotism, gener- 
ous character and sterling friendship. He 
giiined high pei-sonal esteem in Boston, 
and his professional standing was of the 
best 



Joyce. Robert Dwtkr. 

The author of the excellent epic "poems, 
" Deirdre" and " Blanid," and of many 
spirited lyrics. Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, 
was born in Limerick in 1830. After pass- 
ing some yeare in the service of the Com- 
missioners of National Ekiucation, he became 
a student at the Queen's College, Cork, in 
1857, and in 1865 he gra<Iuated with high 
honors, and received the degree of M.D. 
He emigitited to the United SUites the fol- 
lowing year, and settled in Boston, where 
he soon established a lucrative medical 
practice. While in the educational service 



Kkkoan, James (Rev.). 

The Rev. James Keegan, at the present 
time attached to St. Malachi's Chuiih, St. 
Louis, Mo., was born in the parish of Cloon, 
County Leitrim, Ireland, in January, 1860. 
He was educated in Carlow College, and or- 
dained a priest in May, 1883. Nearly all 
the poems he li;is written are on Irish 
themes. 



Keegan, John. 

In the varied peasant-poetry of Ireland there 
is none more true in spirit and form than 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE^. 



749 



tliatof John Keegan, whose productions are 
niai'ked by a simpUoity tliat touches the 
chords of nature at once. This writer was 
born on the Nore, Queen's County, in 1809, 
and he died in 1849. The only education lie 
received was obtained in that peasant's col- 
lege of the old times, the " liedge school." 
With more favorable opportunities and a 
longer life, he would undoubtedly have left 
a brighter name. His best known poem, 
" Caoch the Piper," has enjoyed almost as 
much popularity, both in Ireland and Amer- 
ica, as Banim's "Soggartli Aroon." 



Kelly, Eva Mary. 

Something has already been said about 
" Mary, of the Nation." Her sister in song, 
" Eva," who wrote at the same time, and 
through the same medium, was then Eva 
Mar^' Kelly, " daughter of a Gal way gentle- 
man," as A, M. Sullivan describes her. She 
subsequently became the wife of Kevin 
Izod O'Dolierty, who was banished from Ire- 
land to Australia for his part in the Forty- 
eight movement. The best known of her 
poems, if not actually the best in quality, 
" Tipperarj%" has been credited to more 
than one other writer, as often happens 
when a poem is published anonymously. 
The time of her birth cannot be given here, 
but as she was only a girl when she began 
writing '■ seditious " poetry, it may be as- 
simied to have been about 1830. Her pen 
does not appear to have continued its excel- 
lent work after her marriage. She recently 
revisited Ireland, with her husband, and 
was warmly welcomed in remembrance of 
old times. 



Kelly, William D. (Rev.). 

The Rev. William D. Kelly is of Irish birth, 
but has been a resident of the United States 
since his childhood. He was born in Dun- 
dalk, County Louth, in 1846, and his first 
American home was in Quincy, Mass. Re- 
moving thence to Boston, lie studied in the 
public schools of that city, and also in the 
Boston Latin Scliool. He then went to 
Holy Cross College at Worcester, where he 
received the degree of A.B., and next to the 
Grand Seminary in Montreal, Canada, 
where he was ordained a priest in January, 
1870. After serving on the Mission in Bos- 



ton and Taunton, Mass., and fulfilling for 
some time the duties of Rector of St. Peter 
and Paul's Cathedral, In Providence, R. I., 
lie obtained a leave of absence from his 
bishop, and has since resided In Boston. A 
natural inclination toward literary work has 
led him to an extensive connection with the 
Irish-American and Catholic press. He has 
written many poems, several of which have 
gained the distinction of being widely 
copied. 



Kenxy, James. 

A native of Ireland ; boru 1780, died 1849 ; 
lived chiefly in London, where he was for 
some years a clerk in a banking-house ; 
published a volume of poems, written in a 
light and pleasant vein, and was the author 
of several successful farces and plays, two 
of which, "Raising the Wind," and "Sweet- 
hearts and Wives," once enjoyed a good 
deal of popularity. 



Keppel, Lady Caroline. 

A word is due in explanation of the intro- 
duction of this lady, who was not Irish in 
any sense, into the company here brought 
together, and it may be given in a state- 
ment of the origin of the favorite old song 
"Robin Adair." This song is not Scotch, 
as many persons suppose it to be. It was 
written in England, and tlie air is the old 
Irish air of "Eileen Aroon." Its hero, 
Robin Adair, was a young Irishman of good 
family, who was educated in Dublin and 
became a surgeon. About 1760 he set out 
for London, and he there met the lady who 
subsequently wrote the song — Lady Caro- 
line Keppel, a daughter of the Earl of Al- 
bemarle. A warm attachment grew up be- 
tween them, but the difference in their sta- 
tion caused the lady's parents to object to a 
marriage. They separated, and it was 
after the separation that Lady Keppel, 
who had learned the air of " Eileen Aroon " 
from Adair, wrote the song since known as 
" Robin Adair." Becoming alarmed by the 
rapid failure of her health, her parents fi- 
nally consented to lier marriage to Adair ; 
but her disease liad gone too far for cure, 
and a few years after lijr marriage took 
place she died. Adair became surgeon to 
George III., and was knighted, but though 
he lived to the a.ge of seventy j-ears his 



750 



HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



heart i-oinained true to his bride, and he 
Avore nioiii-iiinfif for lier to tlie last. During 
thi'ir short married hfc, threi! suns were 
horn, the htst of whom. Sir Robert Achiir, 
dii'd in 180.'). In liotli air and subject, at 
least, " Robin Adair " is an Irish song, and 
tliero is no warrant whatever for crediting 
it to Scotland. 



KiCKHAM, ChARLKS JAMKS. 

Tlie two special jioets of the Fenian period 
wej-e John Keegan Casey, already noticed, 
and Charles James Kickhani. Mr. Kick- 
ham was born in Midlinahone, Tipperary. 
in 1«5. He died in Dublin m August. 1882. 
His strong national instincts led him into 
the Fenian movement soon after its be- 
ginning, and for his part in it he was sen- 
tenced in 1865 to fourteen yeai-s' imprison- 
ment. He was conOned at Pcnton\ille, 
Portland, and Woking, till 1869, when his re- 
le;i.se w;is ordered, and he returned to Ire- 
land. His poems are not numerous, but 
all are fresh and vigorous, and one—" Rory 
of the Hills," written in familiar ballad 
style— gained great i)opularity among sym- 
pathlzei's with his political tendencies. He 
was an active contributor to the Irish na- 
tional pre&s, chiefly on topics calculated to 
arouse pati-iotic feeling, and among his 
efforts in fiction were two stories, "Sally 
Cavanagh ; or Untenanted Graves," and 
"Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipper- 
ai-j'," which possessed suflicient merit to 
place him in the ranks of successful au- 
thors. 



Great," "The Hunchback." "TJieWife. . 
Tale of Mantua," " The Love Chose. ' " The 
Rose of Arnigon," and the spirited tragedy 
of ■' Virginius." In his early ycni-s he pub- 
lished a small volume of poems called 
"Fugitive Pieces," and .after his with- 
drawal fi-om the stage he wrote two novels, 
" Fortescue" and "fieorge I.ovell." 



Knowlks, Jamks Shkkidan. 

In the city of Cork, on the 12lh of May. 
1781, James Sheridan Knowles, a second 
cousin of Richard Briusley Sheridan, was 
born. At the age of fourteen years he had 
produced an opera, a tragedy, and a drama. 
At twenty-four ho became an actor, and he 
followed that profession about twentj'- 
eighl yeai-s, retiring from it to enter into 
religious studies, and Ihially becoming a 
Baptist preacher in Scotland, where he 
died in 1863. As a dramatist his rank was 
nearly as high as that of Sheridan, although 
the style in which he wrote is now consid- 
ered somewhat stilted and artilicial. His 
plays include " Brian lioroihnie," "Caius 
Gracchus." ••William Tell," Alfred the 



Laxioax. (tKORGK T. 

Geoige T. Lanigan was personally one of 
the must popular, and professionally one of 
the most accomplished, of Americ:in jour- 
nalists. He was of Irish parentage, born at 
.St. Charles River, Canada, in December, 
184."), and educated at Montreal. In the 
coin-se of his career lie held responsible po- 
sitions on the newspaper press of Xlontreal, 
Chicago, St. Louis, New York and Pliihi- 
delphia. He was also for some time the 
chief editorof the Rochester iN.Y.) •'Post 
E.xpi^ess." It was while on the staff of the 
New York " World," that his best work was 
done. For a period of nine yeare, his adiri- 
rable talents were in const.int exereise in 
the various departments of that newspaper, 
and he became widely known as one of the 
most graceful and vei-satile writei-s on the 
American press. He was the author of a 
series of singularly clever papere called 
" American Fable-s," which gained much 
jiopiilaiity, and were subsiKpiently pub- 
lished in book form, under the title of "Out 
of the AVorld." He also wrote a number of 
bright and amusing poems, dealing chiefly 
with matters of the moment, which re- 
vealed an excellent talent for vei^se-mak- 
ing. His more serious pieces, however, 
were written at a later period. He became 
connected with the Philadelphia "Record "' 
in 1885, and he died in that city, Febi-uary 
5, 1886. 



Leckky. William K. H. 

William Edward Hartpole Leckey, the dis- 
tinguished historian, was born near Dub- 
lin, in 1338, and received his education in 
Trinity College, where he graduated in 
1859. It is unnecessary to speak here of 
the excellent work he has perfornie<l. The 
single poem presented over his name in 
this collection shows that ho can write g^ood 
vei'se as well as masterly prose. 



niOGKAPHICAL NOTES. 



751 



Le Faxu, Joseph Sheridax. 

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu cUiimod kindred 
with the Sheridan family, his mother, who 
married the Rev. Thomas Le Fanu, being- 
a niece of Ricliard Brinsley Sheridan. He 
was born in Dublin, August 38, 1814, and 
his death occurred tliere in February, 1873. 
He began writing at an earlj' age, and a 
large part of his work was done for the 
Dublin •' University Magazine," of which he 
was the owner a few years before his death. 
His writing was chiefly in the line of fic- 
tion, and some of his novels gained much 
popularity. His only metrical productions 
of any note are the narrative ballads, " She- 
mus O'Brien" and " Pliadrig Crohore." 
With the exception of Davis' " Fontenoy," 
there probably is not another Irish ballad 
of action that has been received with greater 
favor than " Shemus O'Brien." 



Lever, Charles James. 

Ireland's most successful novelist, Charles 
James Lever, was born in Dublin, August 
31, 1806. His father, James Lever, was an 
Englishman, and his mother, Julia Cliand- 
ler, was a descendant of an old Cromwel- 
lian family in Irelandy It can hardly be 
said, therefore, that l>e inherited any Irisli 
characteristics, yet, as one of his biogra- 
phers observes, he proved himself "a true 
Irishman ; proud, courageous, high-mind- 
ed ; a faithful husband, a devoted father, 
an affectionate friend, and a passionate 
lover of liis country and countrymen.'' He 
was educated at Trinity College, and in 
1831 he began practicing as a physician. 
His professional activity during the epidemic 
of cholera that prevailed in Ireland the fol- 
lowing year gave him a good deal of dis- 
tinction. He soon afterward entered the 
English diplomatic service, and remained 
in it, with occasional intervals, till his 
death, which occui-red June 1, 1873. Lever 
made no attempt to be a poet, but the songs 
he introduced into his Irisli stories are 
thoroughly racy, and could liave been 
written only by a man born on Irish soil. 



Locke, John. 

At the age of twenty j-ears, John Locke, 
who was born in Ireland in 1847, found 
himself a prisoner for alleged complicity in 



the attempted Fenian insurrection of 1867. 
Shortly after Ids release from prison, he 
left Ireland and settled in New "Voi'k, where 
he has since been engaged in jom'nalisni. 
He has written several short tales as well 
as numerous poems. One of the latter, 
"Morning on the Irish Coast." has been 
widely reprinted, sometimes under the title 
" Top 'o the Morning." This poem and the 
" Midnight Mass for Sarsfield," are good e.\- 
amples of free and picturesque expression. 



Lover, Samuel. 

As Moore was Ireland's most gifted poet of 
sentiment, so Lover lanks as her chief lyri- 
cal exponent of humor. His song-s are 
known the world over, and must be long re- 
membered in other lands as well as his own. 
He was born in Dublin in 1797. At the age 
of twenty he was becoming known as an ar- 
tist, and for several succeeding years he de- 
pended chiefly upon portrait painting tor 
support. In 1837 he settled in London, and 
began to exhibit in the Royal Academy, 
where his works attracted much favorable 
notice. But when he began painting in 
Dublin he also began writing, and thence- 
forward, until failing eye-sight obliged him 
to give up work as an artist, pen and brush 
kept pace with each other. He wrote alto- 
gether some 300 lyrical pieces, nearly all 
songs of love, pathos and humor. The first 
of his songs to excite interest in the author 
was "Rory O'Moore," which was written at 
the suggestion of Lady Morgan. In 1833 he 
published the "Legends and Stories of Ire- 
land," his novel, " Rory O'Moore, A Na- 
tional Romance," appeared later ; " Hand3' 
Andy" was produced in 1843. and "Treas- 
ure Trove " in 1844. His works for the stage 
were the "Olympic Picnic," written for 
Madame Vestris : the " White Horse of the 
Peppers;" the "Happy Man;" an adaptation 
of " Rory O'Moore " for Tyrone Power ; the 
"Sentinel of the Alma," "Macarthy More," 
and an operetta called the " Greek Boy." 
In 1844 he planned a musical and literary 
entertainment called "Irish Evenings," in 
which he appeared in London and Dublin, 
and subsequently in the chief American cit- 
ies, with marked success. In 18.56, a pen- 
sion was granted to him " in recognition of 
his services to literature and art." A few 
years later his health began to fail, and in 



BIOOKAI'HICA I. .\0 TE.s. 



1868 lie (lied in tlie island of Jersey, whither 
li« liiul gone sonic lime before under medi- 
cal advice. He whs married twice, llrst to 
Miss Ueri-el, in Dublin, in 1827, and nt-.xt to 
Miss Wandley, in Eiifrland, in 1832. Iivland 
has had few more iirolillc writei-s than Sam- 
uel Lover, and none who (gained more i>oi>- 
ularity in his own country and elsewhere. 
A " Life of Lover, with Selections fram Un- 
published I'apei's," apiwured in London in 
187-1 . 



Lysa<*iit, Kdwaku. 

A native of Clare ; born in 1763, and died 
in 1810 ; a man of much vei'satility, and 
equally popular as barrister, wit and soni^- 
writer. He took an active part in the Vol- 
unteer movement of 'Eighty -two, and at a 
later period he opposed with vigor and elo- 
([lUMice the stejis which led to the act of 
Union. One of his songs, the "Sprig of 
.Shillelah," was long a favorite, but is now 
valueless except a-s an echo of the time 
when it was written. 



Maqinn, William. 

With the splendid talents which he pos- 
sessed, Dr. Maginn might well have en- 
riched in some degree the poetical literature 
of Ireland. Very few, however, of liis 
Irish poems are .serious in purpose, or 
worthy of the author's power. His best 
metrical work was a translation of pai-ts of 
the Odyssy and the Iliad, which appeared 
under the name of " Homeric Ballads." It 
was as the author of innumerable witty and 
amusing sketches, essays and travesties 
that his chief success was gained. Dr. Ma- 
ginn was born in Cork, in 1794. He was 
the son of a school ma.ster, and he himself 
followed that calling a few yeai'S. In 1817 
In- became a conti-ibutor to " Bliickwood," 
and bis career thenceforward wjis wholly 
literary. In 1830 he withdrew from ' Black- 
wood " and established "Fra.ser's" ius a 
rival magazine, and the experiment proved 
prosperous and profitable. Many of his 
jiroductions, especially upon Irish themes, 
appeared under the name of Morgan O'Do- 
herly. Prior to his death, which occurred in 
1841, the "Homeric Ballads" and selec- 
tions from his miscellaneous writings were 
published in book form. Several yeai-s 
later his relics were lovingly gathered by 



Dr. Robert Shelton McKenzie, and publislie<l 
in New York. It must always be i-egrette<l 
that Iri.sh poetrj- givined so little from tal- 
ent.s so brilliant ius those of Dr. Maginn. 



Mahaxy. RowLAxn B. 

Born in Buffalo, N.Y., in September, 1864 ; 
son of Kean Mahaiiy, artist, of the Dunloi- 
(Kerry) family of that name ; graduuteil 
with lii'st honors from the Buffalo high 
school at the age of si.xteen ; wits teacher in 
a cUus,sical school the following year ; then 
entered Hobart College, where he remained 
two yeai'S, and next became a full course 
student at Harvard Univei-sity Mr. Ma- 
hany's poems have been received with 
marked favor. As the productions of so 
young a writer, tliey give unusually bright 
promise. 



Mahoxy, FuAXfis Sylvkstkr (Rkv.). 
(ienial and versatile " Father Prout," wa.s 
born in Cork in 1804. His remarkable 
classical knowledge was acquired during 
the completion of his education in a Jesuit 
college at Amiens. He studied theology in 
Paris and also in Rome, and took ordei-s in 
the Eternal City. Having served as a priest 
in Switzerland and for a short time in Ire- 
land, he became uttiiched in a clerical ca- 
pacity to the Bavarian Legation in London, 
and it was then that he made acquaintance 
in the literary circle of which he soon be- 
came a brilliant member. In 1834 he wa.s 
a frejpient contributor to Fi-aser's Magazine, 
and the humor and originality of his 
'• Prout Papere " attracted general notice, 
which continued a.s the papei-s proceeded. 
A favorite practice with him was to turn 
current poems into Latin or Greek, print 
the original and the translation side by side, 
anil then contend with much gravity that 
the original poem was a plagiarism. This 
was done with such show of learning and 
authority that many were puzzled and some 
almost pei-suaded by his quizzical misrep- 
resentations. Moore was his chief victim 
in this peculiar sport, but other poets also 
received attention of the Siuue kind. About 
the time he entered the literary circle as a 
regular member, Mahony cea-sed the exer- 
cise of clerical functions, but at no time on 
to liis death would he tolerate any mention 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



'53 



ot religious matters, oi' any allusion to liis 
churcii, lliiit was not stiictly respectful. 
In 1846 lie went to Rome as correspondent 
of the London " Daily News," and remained 
there in that capacity for several years. He 
subsequently took up his residence in Paris 
as correspondent of tlie London " Globe." 
In 1864 he laid his pen aside, retired to a 
monastery in Paris, and remained there till 
his deatli, which occurred on the 18th of 
May, 1866. "The Bells ot Shandon " is 
his best-known production, but " The 
Mistletoe," which is believed to be whollj' 
his own, has much more merit as a poem. 
A word concerning the real Father Prout 
may be added. " I have seen him, spoken 
with him, dined with him," says Dr. Robert 
Shelton McKenzie, in his "Bits of Blarney." 
" The Father Prout, however, ot real life 
was vei'y different from him of the Prout 
Papers. He was parish -priest of Water- 
grass-hill, midway between the city of 
Cork and the town of Fermoy. Prout was 
one of the old priests who, when it was 
penal for a Catholic to exist in Ireland, 
picked up the elements of education how he 
could, completed it at a foreign university, 
and came back to Ireland a priest, to ad- 
minister the consolations of religion to the 
peasantry of his native land. . . . He 
had an unconquerable spirit ot good humor, 
and it was utterly impossible for any one to 
to be in his company for ten minutes with- 
out feeling and basking in the sunshine of 
his buoyant, genial good nature." 



Mangan, James Clabexce. 

That James Clarence Mangan was a poet 
l)re-eminent gifts is quite as true as that lie 
was a man ot most unfortunate life. Born j 
in Dublin in 1803, he died in the same place 
in 1849. He received but little education, 
as the circumstances of his parents were 
such as to force upon him early in life the 
necessity of providing lor himself. This lie 
succeeded in doing for several years by act- 
ing as copyist to a lawyer, who paid him 
small wages, but in wliose office he found 
time tor a good deal of reading, which served 
to quality him for the literary work in which 
he was to engage at a later pei'iod. He was 
subsequently employed in the library of the 
Dublin University, and it was tliere that he 
acquired, by dint of study in spare luiurs, 



the familiarity with general literature which 
his poetical labors reveal. His first pro- 
ductions appeared in the " Penny Journal," 
which many young writers of the time found 
a convenient medium of introduction to the 
public, but as his name became better known 
he found easy access to the Dublin "Uni- 
versity Magazine," the " Nation," which at- 
tracted the best talent of the country, and 
subsequently the " United Irishman," con- 
ducted by John Mitchel, who held him in 
high esteem, and whose pen traced a graphic 
and appreciative sketch of his dismal life to 
preface a volume of his poems published in 
New York in 1859. His knowledge of lan- 
guages was extensive, yet it does not appear 
to have included anything like full familiar- 
ity with the language of his own countiy. 
His translations from the Irish are generally 
believed to be simply a re-setting of prose 
renderings furnished to him by leading Irish 
scholars. He had more knowledge of German 
than of any other tongue except English, and 
he was, as his numerous translations show, a 
student and a lover of the Gei'iiian poets. 
His poems, ascribed to the Arabic, Ottoman, 
etc., are believed to be wholly his own, e.x- 
cept in mere suggestions which came in his 
way in the course of his reading. He un- 
doubtedly possessed the spark of genius, 
but it was often obscured. His neglect of 
himself, through weaknesses which excited 
pity rather than blame, prevented the ac- 
complishment of much that he was qualified 
by nature to do. His place among poets is 
as difficult to define as that of Edgar A. 
Poe, with whom, both spiritually and ma- 
terially, it may be said that he had much in 
common. Had his gifts been well balanced, 
he would doubtless have done great work. 
His life was one of distress and almost of 
despair, and its ending was not, perhaps, 
its most dismal part, although he died ob- 
scurely in a Dublin hospital. There is a 
weird foreshadowing of it in his poem, 
"The Saw-Mill," in which he hears "the 
song of the tree that the saw sawed 
through." In its plaintive song the tree 
seems to say : 

" In a few days more, most lonely one, 
Shall I, as a nan-ow ark, veil 
Thine eyes from the glare of the world and the sun 
'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale - 

In the cold and dun 
Beeesses of yonder dark vale. 



754 



HIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



' For thin, (frieve not : Thou Icnowrst what thunkH 
Tlie weary -soulwl auil int^k owe 
To ileath "—I awoke, and heard four plaiiku 
Fall down with a luuldenln); echo— 
I heard /iiur plnnk» 
Fall doum with a hotlow echo ! 



Manmx, Mary E. 

Jlrs. Miiry E. Mannix is of Irisli parentage 
ami American birth. She Wius born in New 
York fily, in 1846, but the greater part of 
lier life has been passed in Cincinnati, Oliio, 
wliitlier her parents removed in her child- 
hood. Her father's name was Walsh, and 
before her marriage her literary work was 
done over the initials, "M. E. W." She 
has been for several years the wife of Sir. 
John B. Mannix, a member of the Cincin- 
nati Bivr. Mrs. Mannix has written a num- 
ber of very choice poems, and also many 
admirable studies and sket(;hes in prose. 
All her productions show taste, reflection 
and refinement. 



Marstox, Philip Bourkk. 

A note received from tliis gentle and most 
pathetic poet a short time before his death, 
said : " I am quite eligible for your scheme, 
being Irish on my mother's side." Concern- 
ing this Irish mother, one of the poet's bi- 
ographers, Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, 
writes : " When he was scarcely twenty, liis 
mother died. To liim this was such a loss 
as even a son who can see for himself can 
scarcely estimate. This mother to this son 
had been not only a motlier— she had been 
liis companion and his eyes, I have seen 
the many books in which she wrote out his 
early compositions, in her graceful, beauti- 
ful hand ; and she wius not alone scribe, but 
also critic, for she was a most accomplished 
woman." His father, Dr. Westland Mars- 
ton, dramatist and poet, is of an old English 
faiuily. Philip Bourke Marston was born in 
London, August 13, 1850. His beauty as a 
child wiis remarkable. It inspired the ex- 
quisite little poem, " Phili|>, mj- King," one 
of the purest gems of song — by his god- 
mother, Miss Mulocli. An injury to one of 
his eyes, when he wius thi'ee yeare old, grad- 
ually brought on blindness, and from about 
his twentieth year he lived in total darkness. 
Nearly all his poems breathe the most 
plaintive sorrow ; for grief walked with him 
through life. Soon after the death of his 



mother, he lost in the same way rus uit<-iiii<'d 
bride. A sister who l<Hik his mother's place 
lus a companion was next taken away. In 
the following year lie was bereaved again 
by the death of another sister, the wife of 
his close friend and brother poet, Arthur 
0'Shaugline.s.Hy. Two years later, O'Shaugh- 
nes.sy himself died, and the blind singer 
found himself almost alone, in hopeless 
darkness. Some leaders of his poems say 
they are too s;ul, but the sadness of his life 
was much greater. He knew little but sor- 
row from the beginning, but he bore it well, 
and made but little complaint. He pub- 
lished three books of poems — "Song-Tlde," 
" All in-All, "and "Wind-Voices. • Hisdeath 
occurred in London, Febniarv 14, 1887. 



MATtiRix, Edward. 

Edward Matiirin, who held a prominent 
place in New York liteniry circles for many 
years, was a son of the Rev. Charles P. 
Matui'in, of Dublin, eminent as a novelist 
and dramatist, and best known as the au- 
thor of the tragedy of '•Bertram." Like 
his father, he w;\s educated at Trinity Col- 
lege, in his native city. Reaching New 
York in earlj* life he began a literary ca- 
reer that continued till his death, which 
occurred in 1882. He was then in his sixty- 
ninth year. Mr. Maturin was a man of 
striking appearance, with a soldierly air 
that always drew attention, and was some- 
what suggestive of one of the ditshing 
Spanish Cavaliers celebrated in his spirited 
Spanish lyrics. His .soholai'ship wiis ex- 
tensive and thorough, and the writing of 
verse was to liiiu only a recreation in the 
course of more serious work. It may be 
made known here, for the fii-st time pub- 
licly, that an important part of the re\n- 
sion of the New Testament, i;arried through 
a few years since by English and Ameri- 
can churchmen, was entrusted to him. A 
oilcction of his poems, under the title of 
' Maturin's Lyrics" — about one half being 
on Spani.sh and the other on Irish themes — 
was published in 1850. 



Mkaghkr, Thomas Fraxcis. 

Even a woi-d about the ptitriot, orator and 
soldier. General Thomas Francis Meagher, 
is almost superfluous. He w;is born in 
Walerford, in 1833. For his part in the ris- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



755 



ing of 1848, lie was sentenced to death, but 
subsequently transi)oi'ted to Tasmania. In 
1852 he escaped and came to America. In 
1861 he joined tlie Union army as a Captain 
in tlie famous Sixty-ninth New York Regi- 
ment. A few montlis later he raised the Irish 
Brigade in New York, and was commissioned 
a Brigadier-General. At the battle of Fred- 
ericksburg he received a wound which inca- 
pacitated him for further active service. 
After the close of the wnr he was appointed 
Governor of Montana. On the night of July 
1, 1807, he fell from a steamer on the Mis- 
sissippi river, and was drowned. His body 
was not 7'ocovered. 



MiLLiKEX, Richard A. 

" The Groves of Blarney " is tlie only com- 
position by which Richard Alfred Milliken 
is remembered, although he wrote a few 
other things of some merit. The circum- 
stances under which the song was written 
are worth mentioning. Wliile visiting a 
lady in the country, ililliken heai'd a wan- 
dering ballad-singer vaunt the praises of his 
hostess, after the pretentious manner of his 
class. He was bantered to produce the 
equal of the g'randiloquent verses, and the 
result was the composition that has pre- 
served his name. It is chiefly as an amusing 
parody of the incongruous hedge-poet style 
that the stanzas have any value. In passing 
through tlie hands of many printere they 
have undergone numerous textual varia- 
tions ; but the version given here, with the 
comical refrain, "Ocli, Ullagone!" is most 
near the original. Milliken was born in Cork 
in 1767, became a barrister, and died in 1815. 



MooRK, Thomas. 

The period that gave Ireland her most re- 
nowned statesman, Henry Grattan, and her 
most illustrious patriot, Robert Emmet, also 
produced her greatest poet, Thomas Moore. 
It was her period of national resurrection. 
Moore was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779— 
three years before England's concession of 
independence to the Irish Parliament. Dur- 
ing his education in Trinity College his 
talent for verse making was frequently mani- 
fested, and several of his minor poems were 
then written. In 1797 his interest "became 
fixed upon the old Irish melodies, which had 



been rescued from tbreutoned oblivion by 
Mr. Bunting in a work published the pre- 
vious year. His intimacy with Emmet in 
college infused into that interest a strong- 
national spirit, and to it was largely due the 
wainith and ardor with which, through the 
medium of the most exquisite song, he es- 
poused his country's cause. When, in 1803, 
he received an appointment to a post in 
Bermuda, he had already gained distinction 
as a poet, although it was not till ten years 
later, when his "Irish Melodies" began to 
apjiear, that his true merit found recognition 
and appreciation. It was then seen that 
Ireland had fouad a new voice in the world, 
and one to which all the world listened. 
The "melodies" rose instantaneously to 
imiversal favor, and the echoes of their un- 
equalled strains were borne around the 
globe. The spirit of Irish nationality, which, 
if thought of at all, was supposed to be dead 
and past resuirection, was revived and re- 
stored, and appealing to the heart of all 
mankind. ToquoteMr. Alfred M. Williams, 
in his interesting' " Poets and Poetry of Ire- 
laud ; " — " The song.s expressed as had never 
before been done in the English language an 
Irish and national feeling and patriotism, 
celebrated the beauties of Irish scenei-y, and 
paid tribute in a distinct manner, although 
names were not mentioned, to patriots like 
Emmet, who had suffered for treason accord- 
ing to the English law. Its history was 
illuminated and its beautiful legends pre- 
sented in the most attractive form ! " There 
has been a reudiiicss to censure Moore for 
the tone of some ol lii> American poems, 
but it should bc> icmeiiil"-ied that he was 
but little more than a youth when they were 
written — shoi'tly after his appointment to 
the post in Bermuda — and also that the con- 
dition of many things in America was very 
different at that time from what it has since 
become. During- the latter part of his life 
he resided almost entirely in England. His 
death took place there — at Sloperton Cot- 
tage, near Devizes — February 25, 1852. 



MuiR, Mariox. 

Although bearing a Scotch name, Miss 
Marion Muir is partly of Irish lineage, her 
mother, whose maiden name was Adelia 
Cole, having- bein born in Dublin. Her 
father, the Hon. Wni. Train Muir, a native 



o6 



lilOGRArHICAL XOTES. 



of Scotland, was favorably known on the I 
bench of Colorado. Miss >Iuir wa-s bom in 
Cliimjjo, but has lived in Colorado since her 
childhood. She lias written both verse and ' 
prose with much spirit, and the merit of her | 
productions has been widely recognized. ] 



nod and for some time after, she wrote ex 
tensively, and always with a clear purposi- 
but for .some time pa.st her \^^•n ha-srestiil 
in " inglorious ciLse," to the repret of tho--. 
who know what it is capable of doing when 
employed. 



MuLHOLLAxn, Rosa. 

Of the thousiinds who have been charmed 
by the stories of Miss Rosa Mulholland. 
])robably but few are familiar with her ex- 
quisite work as a poet. Nevertheless it was 
in the domain of poetry that her (Iret suc- 
cess was gained. Miss Mulholland is a na- 
tive of Belfa.st, and a daughter of a physi- 
cian of that city. She has been for several 
yeai-s an industrious contributor of both 
tales and poems to the English periodicals, 
and also to some in Ireland. One of the 
first pel-sons to recognize her talent was 
Charles Dickens, who invited her into 
the service of his magazine, " All the Year 
Round," while she had yet to make a 
name. Miss Mulholland resides alternately 
in London and Dublin, and is one of the 
busiest of the many busy writei-s of the 
day. Her ])Ooms were published in collec- 
tive form in 1886. Her stories, which have 
been extensively read on both sides of the 
Atlantic, include " Hesters History," " The 
Wicked Woods of Toberevil," " Eldei- 
gowan," " Dunmara," " Hetty Gray," " The 
Late Miss Hollingford," " Marcella Grace," 
and "The Wild Birds of Killeevy." It 
maj- not be out of place here to say that 
Miss Mulholland is a sister-in-law of Sir 
Charles Russell, who was Attorney General 
for England under the Gladstone Govern- 
ment that retired in 188C. 



MlLl-AIA, Maky. 

Miss Mary JIulUily is also a native of Bel- 
fast, but has been for a number of years a 
resident of New York. Her literarj- talents 
have been exercised in a quiet way.and with- 
out anj' desire on her part to attract notice. 
She has written several interesting tales 
marked by slrengUi, brightness and sympa- 
thy , and her pen has also done some excel lent 
newspaper work. Both her tales and poems 
have, in most cases, ajtpeared without any 
other indication of their authorship than 
the initials, "M. M." During the war pe- 



IXKITTRlrK, Rl< HARD K. 
••All the family on my fathers side -.w 
Irish and it seems to me I belong thei- 
myself," writes Mr. Munkittrick. who-' 
neat vei^ses, esich a cameo in words, ha\ ■ 
gained him recognition as one of the risiii-- 
poets of the time. His father is u native ol 
Aitlec, Ireland, and his mother is Amen 
can, but he himself was born in Mauchi- 
ter, England, Maix-h 5, 1853. He has l>eii 
eng-aged in literai-y work about ten yeai-, 
and during the past five years he has Ix-.i; 
editorially connected with the well-knovM' 
New York publication, "Puck." His jweiii- 
have appeared in the leading magazin<-. 
and have attracted notice by an artist I. 
neatness that is never attained except li> 
true talent. 



Murphy, Katharine. 

•'Bridgid" was the nam de plume ot Miss 
Katharine Murphy, a native of the city of 
Cork, by whose death, in the early pjirt of 
1885, a poet of much power was removed 
from the ranks of Irish writera. Although her 
assumed name had been familiar for some 
yeai-s, it was onlj- a short time before her 
death that her real name became known in 
connection with her work. '•Bridgid " w;i> 
widely read in Ireland, while Katharine Mm 
pliy lived a quiet and almost secluded I if. 
in lier native city. The best known of Ikt 
poems, " Sentenced to Death," possesses 
great dramatic power, and has been ex 
tensively reprinted. Poetry wiis not, how 
ever, her only literarj' occupation. Sh. 
wrote a number of tales, some being In- 
torical in character, which won consideral)li' 
success. Although all her work was not 
carefully done, the material in a great deal 
of it is of superior quality. 



McCarthy, Dkxis Florkxck. 

Boi^n in 1817, and beginning to write at 
age of seventeen, Denis Florence 5IcCar' 



BtOGRAPHICAL NOTEi 



757 



had already gained some distinction when 
tlie spirited poets directly associated with 
the "Young Ireland " period came upon the 
stage. His work is varied, comprehensive 
and valuable. In 1846 he edited the "Poets 
and Dramatists of Ireland," and the " Book 
of Irish Ballads," and in 1850 the first collec- 
tion of his own poems appeared, under the 
title of "Ballads, Poems and Lyrics." In 
1853 he began translating the plays of the 
Spanish dramatist, Calderon, and this work 
he continued at intervals for twenty years. 
Concerning it the poet Longfellow wrote 
to tlie translator in 1857: "You are doing 
this work admirably, and 'seem to gain 
new strength and sweetness as you go on. 
It seems as if Calderon himself were behind 
you wliispering and suggesting. And what 
better work could you do in your bright 
hours or in your dark hours than just this, 
which seems to have been put providentially 
into your hands." In 1857 a second collec- 
tion of Mr. McCarthy's poems was published, 
bearing the title, "Under-Glimpses and 
other Poems," and in the same year he also 
published the "Bell-Founder and other 
Poems." A work entitled "Shelley's Early 
Lite," wliichreceivedmuch critical attention, 
and showed careful research and study, 
appeared in 1873. His later poetical work 
consisted chiefly of noble centenary odes in 
honor of O'Connell (1875) and Moore (1879.) 
Either of his longer poems— " Ferdiah," 
" The Voya,ge of St. Brendan," " The Bell 
Founder," and tlie " Foray of Con O'Don- 
nell" — contains sufficient merit to entitle 
him to a place of honor among poets. 
Nature, patriotism and the affections in- 
spired his shorter poems in almost equal 
degrees. Tlie "Bridal of the Year" and the 
"Progress of the Rose " are as fine examples 
of the poetry of flowers as English verse 
contains. Mr. McCarthy was educated for 
the law, but literature proved his choice, 
and he followed it over forty years. Nearly 
all his life was passed in the place of his 
birth, Dublin, where he died April 7, 1882. 
A volume containing all his poems, and 
edited by his son, John McCarthy, was 
published in Dublin in 1884 Alluding to 
tlie gentleness of the poet's character, his 
son says : — "His nature was most sensitive, 
but though it was his lot to suffer many 
sorrows, I never heard a complaint or an 
unkind word from his lips." 



McCarthy, Justin H. 

Although still in the early years of man- 
hood, Justin Huntly McCarthy, son of the 
historian and novelist, Justin McCarthy, 
has already made a creditable literary 
name. He was educated chiefly by liis 
father, which accounts in some degree foi- 
the form of his literaiy tastes ; and like liis 
father, he is imbued with strong Irisli 
national sentiments. At the present time 
both father and son are members of Par- 
liament, sitting with the Home Rule party. 
Mr. McCarthy's publications thus far are 
"Serapion and other Poems," "Four Years 
under Gladstone," and several interesting 
studies of Irish history. He is also the au- 
thor of a play, "Tlie Candidate," which 
gained a marked success in London. Pos- 
sessing both talent and industrj", he is in a 
fair waj' to make a reputation as brilliant 
as that of his father. 



McClure, William J. (Rev.). 

The Rev. William James McClure is of Irish 
parentage, and was born in Dobb's Ferry, 
on the Hudson, New York, in 1843. Before 
enterin.g the priesthood he passed a few 
years in commercial pursuits in New York. 
His preparation for a clerical life was made 
in Canada, and his ordination took place 
there in 1877. His first appointment after 
taking orders was in St. Stephen's Church, 
New York, and at the present time he has a 
pastoral charge at RhineclifT on the Hud- 
son. He published a small volume of poems 
before his studies for the priesthood began. 



McDermott, Hu&h Farrar. 

Hugh Farrar McDermott was born at New- 
townbutlei', County Fermanagh, Ireland, 
August 16, 1833. Being intended for the 
law, he received a good general education, 
subsequently improved by classical studies. 
He arrived at Boston, Mass., in 1849, but 
instead of turning toward tlie bar for em- 
ployment, he sought it in journalism, 
which was more congenial and in which 
he has since been steadily engaged. In 
addition to having done a great deal of 
newspaper work, Mr. McDermott has writ- 
ten a number of poems, which have been 
well received. Several of these have been 
collected in a volume entitled " The Blind 



758 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



Canarj'," which has reached a second edi- 
tion. He hivs been connected with various ] 
Now Yorlc newspapers, and has contrlhuted 
extensively to tlie lit^'-ary press. At the [ 
present time he is tlie editor of the "Jersey , 
City Herald." The poems here presented i 
under his name show nuich tenderness of 
thoiifrlit and a gentle felicity of expi-ession. j 



MtfJEK. Thomas DArcy. 

Carlingfoiil, in the county of Louth, Ire- 
land, was the native place of Thomas 
D'Arcy McGee, a man of the most vigorous 
and versatile intellectual force. He was 
born April 13, 1825. and in 1813. having 
then acquired an excellent education, he 
emi.yrrated to the United States. At the 
age of nineteen he was engaged editorial- 
ly on the Boston " Pilot," where his marked 
abihties found congenial exercise. Re- 
turning to Ireland a few yeai-s later, he 
became one of tlie most valued of the many 
brilliant contributoi-s to the columns of the 
" Nation," and took an active jiart in the 
impetuous Yoimg Ireland niovement. On 
the failure of that movement he again 
sought American shores, and in October, 
18-18. he arrived in Philadelphia. Proceed- 
in.i;- at once to New York he established 
the same month the " New York Nation," 
but a controverey with Archbishop Hughes 
proved serious to the fortunes of the pa]>er, 
and in 1850, Mr. McGee removed to Boston 
and began the publication of the "Ameri- 
can Celt." This w;is afterward tfansferred 
to BufTalo. and thence to New York, but, 
although popular for a while, it did not 
prosper as the editor had expected. Dis 
posing of his interest in it in 185 T, he re- 
moved to Montreal and established the 
"New Era." He then entered into Cami- 
dian politics, and in the course of a few- 
years he becanie a popular and influential 
leader among his countrymen. In 18C5 he 
again visited Ii-eland, and later he went to 
Paris as Commissioner from the Canadian 
Government to the Fi'ench Industrial Expo- 
sition. He had alreiuly held the office of 
Minister of Agricultm-e, and when the Do- 
minion of Canada was organized he was 
elected a member of the new Parliament. 
Ill Ottawa, on the 7lh of April, 1868, he 
\v:is killed by an as.s:issin, whose motive is 
bi'lievcd to have been politiciil. Mr. Mc- 1 



Gee had incurred much enmity by strongly 
condemning the Fenians. His poems, 
which fill a volume of 600 pages, display a 
lofty and rich imagination, and the most 
ardent devotion to his native countrj'. 
Among other works produced by him, all 
strong, fresh and scholarly, ai-e a " Catli- 
olic History of North America," '• Irish Set- 
tles in America," "O'Connell and his 
Friends," "'The Irish Writei's of the Seven- 
teenth Centun-," the " Life of Bishop Ma- 
ginn," " Attempts to Establish the Protes- 
tant Reformation in Ireland." :mil •• A Vny- 
ularHistorv of Ii-eland." 



McIlwaixe. William (Rkv.). 

A valuable collection of devotional poetr>-, 
entitled " Lyra Hibernica Sacni." and bear- 
ing the name of the Rev. William Mcll- 
waine, D. D., Incumbent of St. Geoi-ge's 
Chui-ch, Belfast, and Canon of St. Patrick's, 
Dublin, as editor, was published in Belfast 
in 18T9. In collecting the poems, hymns, 
etc.. contained in this volume. Dr. Mcll- 
waine iierfornied an important service. The 
book is the onlj' one of its special kind extant , 
and the editor says in his preface that his 
object in compiling it was a national one. 
Taking tlie "Lyra Anghcana" and the 
"Lyra Germanica" as models, he undertook 
to make jin Irish collection of like character 
that would bear favorable comparison with 
these. The purpose was a worthy one, and 
Dr. Mcll waine accomplished it in acreditable 
manner. While most of the writer's repre- 
sented in his book are of various Protestant 
denominations. Catholic authoi-s also appear 
in it. and an effort evidently was made to 
avoid imparting to it a sectarian spirit. 
Many of the writere ai-o unknown in other 
litei-arj- fields, but all have done well in this 
one. and the editor himself may be named 
among those who have done best. 



McMiLLiN, Mary A. 

This lady, who wrote over the name of 
" Una," and published a vohuueof poems in 
Cincinnati in 1863, wiis born in one of the 
Northern counties of Ii-eland, but nearlj- all 
her life was passed in America. She was 
for some yeai-s a resident in St. Martin's 
Convent, Brown County, Ohio, but subse 
quently she became the wife of Mr. Angus- 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



■59 



tine Ford and cliangeil hec rpsidence to 
Brooklyn, N. Y., where slie died a few 
years ago. A lady of literai-y note who 
knew lier well describes her as " a true 
poetess and admirable 



NORTOJf, Oarolixe E. 

A sad story is that of Caroline Elizabeth 
Norton, one of the three gifted grand-daugh- 
ters of Richard Brinsley Slieridan. She was 
born in England in 1808, but a considerable 
jiart of lier life was passed in Ireland. At 
the age of twenty-two she became the wife 
ui the Hon. George Chappel Norton, a man 
of mean character and disagreeable habits, 
wlio caused her many sorrows and much 
mortification. Being without means of 
support, he importuned her to procure him 
puiployment from Lord Melbourne, upon 
whom she had some strong family claims. 
The employment was obtained, and several 
years later, the ungrateful husband brouglit 
an action for divorce, accompanied by a 
claim against Lord Melbourne lor £10,000 
damages. The jury, however, found a ver- 
dict against him without leaving their box. 
Before the be.ginning of the Melbourne 
trouble, Mrs. Norton contributed largely to 
her husband's suppoi-t, wholly from her lit- 
erary earnings. He died in 1869, and in the 
spring of 1877, a few months before her own 
death, and when it was known that the end 
of her own life was near, Mrs. Norton was 
married to Sir AVilliam Stirling' Maxwell, 
whom she had known for many years. This 
marriage attracted much attention, on ac- 
count of her advanced age, and the certainty 
that she had but a short time to live. Mrs. 
Norton's first book, the '• Sorrows of Rosa- 
lie." was published in 1839. In the follow- 
ing year she published a poetical version of 
the legend of the Wandering Jew, under 
the title of "The Undying One,"" which re- 
ceived much critical notice. In 1836 ap- 
peared "A Voice from the Factories,'" 
and in 1840 her most ambitious poem " The 
Dream," in which much of her own unhappy 
experience was narrated, was published. 
Two other long poems from her jjen are "The 
Child of the Island,"" and " Tlie Lady of La 
Garaye,'" both marked by line fancy and 
artistic finish. She wrote besides "The 
Jlartyr," a tra,gedy ; three novels, "Stuart 



of Dunleath,' " Lost and Saved," and " Old 
Sir Douglas,"' and a number of sketches and 



Ogle, George. 

Several sentimental songs, of a kind now 
out of vogue, were written by the Hon. 
George Ogle, a native of We.\ford, who 
represented that county, and subsequently 
the City of Dublin, in the Irish Parliament. 
He was born in 1739 and died in 1814. The 
mostpopularof his songs, " Molly Asthore," 
is believed to have been addressed to Miss 
Jloore, whom he afterwards irarried. 



Ork, James. 

The only poem bj- James Orr that gained 
popularity, although he wrote many, is 
" The Irishman."' Orr was born near Car- 
rickfergus, in 1770. He became one of the 
United Irishmen and took part in the insvu-- 
rection of '98. For this he was imprisoned, 
but released after some time, on condition 
tliat he should leave the country. He emi- 
grated to America, but returned to Ireland 
a few j'ears later, and died there in 1816. 



O'Brien, Attie. 

Born near Ennis, County Clare, June 24, 
1840 ; died April 5, 1883. It was the mis- 
fortune of Attie O'Brien (or Frances Mar- 
cella O'Brien, her real and full name, al- 
though she preferred the other and used it 
in all her literai-y work)to be an invalid the 
greater part of her days. She contributed 
to the Dublin "Nation," the "Irish Monthly"' 
and also some of the English periodicals. 
Her poems show deep feeling, and are 
marked by spiritual devotion and resigna- 
tion. Had her health not been so poor, the 
productions of her pen woidd probably have 
been more varied and vigorous. 



O'Brien, Fitz-James. 

Ireland has produced few more versatile 
men of letters than Fitz-Janies O'Brien, 
who w^as born in the county of Limerick, 
about 1828. His family being in good cir- 
cumstances, he was educated at Dublin 
University, where he gained a full share of 
honors. Soon after leaving college he went 
to London, where he remained a few years, 



roo 



hjouKaj'HIcal ao tks. 



engaged in such literary work as he could 
find to do. In ia")2 he arrived in New Yorli. 
with introductory lettoi-s. and hi a short 
time lie became favonibly known as a con- 
Iriliutor to litei-ary paiicrs and the magu- 
ZMies, although at the beg'inning he had to 
coiitonil with many difficulties, as is the 
case with all who work with the pen. He 
wrote tales and poems with etpial felicity, 
sonic of the former being characterized by 
an ingenuity and originality almost enti- 
tling them to rank with the weiid and cu- 
rious inventions of Edgar A. Poe. The 
quality of his poems may be judged by the 
examples in this volume. In 1861, soon af- 
ter the outbreak of the Civil War, he joined 
the Seventh Regiment, New York National 
Guard, and went into service with it at 
Wa'slihigton. He subsequently received an 
appointment on the statT of General Lan- 
dei-, commanding in Virginia, and in a skir- 
mish on the 26th of February, 1862, he re- 
ceived a wound from which he died at Cum- 
berland, Va., on the 6tli of April, in his 
thirty-fouith year. His bodj- was brought 
to New York and buried in Greenwood 
Cemetery. His friend. William Winter, 
who collected and published a volume of 
his works some yeare after his death, .says 
of him : — " There was such a bi-eezy audac- 
ity in his genius that, thinking of him after 
all these yeai-s, I feel a thrillof barbaric joy, 
as if youth itself were come back. He was 
like a giant oak, responsive to the midnight 
gale, and exulting in its rage. He was like 
the ocean swept by the tempest, that an- 
swere with clarion tumidt and savage de- 
light He did not approach 

literature with timid deprecation, but he 
fronted his work royally, and he performed 
it. He spoke his mind, and. he neither val- 
ued life nor feared death." It w;us at one 
time said that the title of Baron of Inchi- 
quin belonged to O'Brien, but that proved to 
be a jest started among his jocose literary 
friends, and enjoyed by him in the spirit in 
which it originated. 



a few months later he proceeded to Cat i 
fornia, where he has since resided, cliiefl\ 
in San Francisco. He is engaged in join 
nalism and general literary work, and li' 
has also [lublished a volume of interesting 
poems. His father. Charles O'Connell. w;. 
a relative and intimate friend of the faniou 
Liberator. 



O'COX.NOR, JOSKPII. 

A graceful delicacy, apparent alike in tli. 
sentiment and the form of his vei-se, niarK- 
the poems of Joseph O'Connor. Mr. O'Coi i 
nor was born in Montgomery county, Ni-\^ 
York. December 17, 1841, of parents wh. 
had emigrated fi-om Clonmel. Ireland. H. 
was prepared foi' college at the Rocliest> i 
(N.Y.) high school, and he went ■ thence t- 
the Rochester Univcmty, where he gradu- 
ated in 1863. It was intended that ho 
should follow the law, but after being duly 
prepared for that pi-ofession and admitted 
to the bai\ he turned to journalism instead, 
and at an age when many journalists are 
still in the lower ranks, he was entriLsted 
with editorial responsibilities. He has been 
editor of the Rochester "Democrat," tli' 
Indiana]X)lis "Sentinel" and the Buffal i 
" Courier," and he was on the staff of tli.' 
New York " World " in its best literar,\ 
daj's. At the present time he is the editm 
of the Rochester " Post-Expres.s." Edito- 
rial duties have necessarily interfered with 
the exercise of his purely literary tjiste;-. 
but the few poems under his name in thi~ 
volume show a degree of artistic execution 
which indicates that poetry ha-s been a loser 
by the author's absorption in jimrnalisni. 



O'COXNKLL, DAXIEL. 

Among literaiy workei-s on the Pacific 
coast is Daniel O'Connell, a native of Lis- 
canor. County Clare ; born in 1848. After 
extensive travel in Europe and Asia, Mr. 
O'Connell arrived in New York in 1867, and 



O'Connor, Michaku 

The poems of Michael O'Connor, brother of 
the preceding, would doubtless be more 
numerous had his life been le.ss brief. He 
was born at East Chester, Westchester 
county, N.Y., June 18, 1837, and he died in 
Virginia, December 38, 1862, a few months 
after entering the military service as a 
sergeant in the 140lh regiment of New 
York Vojunteei's. He was ti-ained to ;i 
trade, but his inclinations tended strangle 
toward literature, and in his leisure hour- 
he wrote several poems which showed 
much promise. An appreciative study 



IJ 



BWGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



his literary work was i)iiblislio(l some years 
since by Mr. Rossiter Johnson. His poem, 
" My Beau," was widely copied in the war- 
time, and considered one of the best pieces 
tlicn written. 



O'DoNXKLL, John Francis. 

There is reason to regret that no collection 
ot the poems of John Francis 0"Donnell 
has been made. They are scattered 
through various publications, in Ireland, 
England and America, and as many 
wore publislied without the author's 
name, tlie identification of all his work 
in tiiis line would be difficult. He began 
writing at the age of fourteen years, in 
his native town — Kilkenny, wliere he was 
born in 1837 — and his pen continued actively 
employed, chiefly in London, till his deatli, 
which occurred in May, 1874. He wrote in 
tlie "Nation," the " Irish People," the " Tip- 
perary Examiner," the "Dublin Review," 
" Chambers' Journal," and tlie London 
"Tablet," of which he was for a wliile the 
editor ; and also in the Boston "Pilot" and 
some other American publications. He 
used various ncmis deplume, but the one best 
known was " Caviarre." Of the merit of 
his poems there can be no question. " Lim- 
erick Town " and ' ' Ireland's Dead in Rome " 
are excellent examples of different kinds of 
work. His deatli took place in London 
and he is buried at Kensal green. 



O'Hagan, Joh.x. 

In liis early years John O'Hagan. better 
known in recent times as Justice O'Hagan, 
was an entliusiastic nationalist. He contrib- 
uted a number of spirited poems to the " Na- 
tion," mostly under tlie name of " Sliab Cui- 
linn." His "Dear Land" and "Ourselves 
Alone" were among the most popular lyrics 
ot tiie 'Forty-eight period. He was born in 
Newry, County Down, in 1822, his fatlier be- 
ing a leading merchant ot that place. The 
chief part of liis life, however, has been 
passed in Dublin. As legal head of the Irish 
Land Commission, he has become widely 
known. He is an M. A. of Trinity College, 
and "Judge of the Supreme Court of Judi- 
cature in Ireland." A translation of the 
" Song of RolantI" is perhaps his most finish- 
ed literai-y performance. 



O'Hara, Thkodork. 

America's foremost elegiac poet, Col. Theo- 
odore O'Hara, was born at Danville, Ken- 
tucky, February 11, 1830. His father, Kf an 
O'Hara, was an Irish political exile, and a 
man of varied learning, and his mother, 
Helen Hardie, was an accomplished woman, 
of English descent. His education was liii- 
islied at St. Joseph's Academy, Bardstown, 
Ky., where he won the first honors of the 
classical course. After an honorable con- 
nection with the press in Louisville, he 
entered the military service, with the rank 
of captain, in 1846, on tiie breaking out ot 
the war witli Mexico, and during its prog- 
ress lie gained special distinction by gal- 
lant conduct. He was subsequently with 
Lopsz in Cuba and later with Walker in 
Nicaragua. Heatterward filled editorial po- 
sitions on the Moliile (Ala.) "Register" and 
the Frankfort (Ky.) "Yeoman." At the be- 
ginning' of the struggle between the States 
he espoused the Soutliern cause, and in 
the course of the conflict he gained addition- 
al military distinction on tlio staflf of Gen. 
John C. Breckenridge, and also on that of 
Gen. Albert Sydney Johnston, who fell in 
his arms on receiving his death-wound at 
the battle of Sliiloh. After the war he en- 
gaged in business in Columbus, Ga., and 
later he retired to a i>lantation in Ala- 
bama, where he died June 6, 1867. The 
poem bj' which he is best known, as beau- 
tiful an elegiac poem as was ever written, 
and which has become standard under the 
title of "The Bivouac ot the Dead," al- 
though it was originally named "Ken- 
tucky's Dead," was read by him at the ded- 
ication of a monument to the Kentucky 
soldiers who fell in Mexico, at Frankfort, in 
1847. In 1873 the Legislature of Kentucky 
provided for the removal of his remains to 
the State Cemetery at Frankfort. Colonel 
O'Hara wrote many poems besides the two 
in this volume, but they have not been 
collected, and all efforts to obtain them 
have proved unavaihng. A number of them 
were gathered up after his death, with the 
intention of publishing them in book form 
but in some way they became mislaid and 
lust, and no trace of tlieiu can now be found. 



O'Rkilly, Johx Boyle. 

No other Irisli-American poet has gamed so 
liigh a place as John Boyle O'Reilly, journal- 



r62 



/.7( H.K.irHlL. //. .\ ( U I:. 



ist ami novelist, as. well as iiuthor of many 
poems of miicli |)ower and striking origi- 
nality. Mr. O'Reilly was born at Dowlli 
Ciuslle, in the county of M.^utli. June 28, 
1844 IIo was well grouiid.Ml in jinutical 
education by liis father, William David 
O'Reilly, a successful teacher and accom- 
plished scholar. While yet a youth his mind 
turned toward literature and tlio technical 
work of journalism. He learned type-setting 
in the office of a Drogheda newspaper, the 
"Ai-gus." and going thence to England 
he found employment as a stenographer. 
Returnmg to Ireland when the Fenian 
movement became active— after the c'lose of 
the Ameiican war — he enlistcMl in a cavalrj* 
regiment, the Tenth Hussars, for the pur- 
pose of learning the trade of a soldier. In- 
evitable discovery of his national proclivities 
soon followed ; he was arrested on a charge 
of high treason, and at the age of twenty- 
one he had the honor of being sentenced to 
twenty yeaiV imprisonment for serving his 
native country. In November, 1SC7, he 
was placed on board a convict ship, with 
sixty-two other |K>litical victims, and sent 
to West Australia, where he arrived in 
January, 1868. His escape from Australia 
about a year later was an adventurous ej)!- 
sode. After passing through many dan- 
gei-sand hardships whileawuitingthe ac^tual 
means of escape, he was finally taken on 
board an American ship, the " Gazelle," of 
New Bedford, whose captain, David R. Gif- 
ford, aided him then and thereafter with 
hearty good will. The sidisequent cruise 
of the "Gazelle " gave Mr. O'Reilly six 
months' experience of a whaler's life, and 
that experience, with more that followed, 
furnished liiui with themes and tcchuicnl 
si'a-knowledge for some of his most elfee- 
tive poems, notably •' The Amber Whale'" 
and -The Last o't the Narwhale." He 
linally landed at Philadelphia in November, 
1809. made a bricjf slay in that place, and 
then proceeded to New York, whence, in 
the following year he went to Boston and 
obtained employment on the "Pilot," of 
which in a short time he became the editor. 
In conjunction with Archbishop Williams 
he pui-cha-sed the "Pilot" in 1870, and he 
has since conduclcHl it with civdit to liini- 
.self and usefulness to his lountrymeii. The 
current of Mr. O'Reilly's poetical thought 
is broad and strong. His Irish poems 



breathe a tme Irish spirit, ardent, patri- 
otic, pathetic, yet in none is there the 
1 slightest echo of any other poet. All his 
work in this direction is distinctively his 
I own. His Australian |>iH>ma, "The King 
I of the Vasse," " The Dukite Snake," and 
olliei-s, depict what his own eyes have seen, 
ivs well its show the imaginative fore*, in 
the same manner iis the sea-poems already 
cited; while his American |)oenis reveal the 
warmest sympathy with the life, ideas, 
work, pride and purpose of the people 
among whom he has made his home. His 
first Vfdunie, "Songs of the Southern Sea-s," 
was published in 1873. In 1878, he iitib- 
lishecl "Songs, Legends and Ifcdlads," and 
in 1881 a third volume of poems, "The 
Statues in the Block." Between the sec- 
ond and third came the novel of " Moon- 
dyne," containing much descriptive infor- 
mation about Aiisti-.ilia, and presenting 
striking pictures of colonial life. His lat- 
est book of poems "In Bohemia," appeared 
in 1880. 



OR VAX, FuAxcis. 

Francis O'Ryan was born near Cork city, 
a.id has been a resident of New York about 
thirty yeai-s. His occupation is that of a 
teacher, and he has been professionally 
connected with such educational institutions 
lus Seton Hall College, New Jeisey, and the 
College of St. Francis Xavier, New Yoik. 
For sevei-.il yeai-s past he has been engaged 
as a teacher of di-awing in the New York 
public schools. His literary work is varied, 
and includes poems, short stories and |>lay.s. 
He has also made a translation of Juve- 
nal's satires, and written a metrical ro- 
mance founded oil one of the earlier inva- 
sions of Poland. 



D'RvA.v, Jll.lA M. 

Miss Julia M. O'Ryan is a native of Cork 
city. All her litei-aiy work has been done 
in Ireland. She has contributed some ex- 
cellent poems to the "Catholic World." of 
New York, and also to the " Irish Monthly." 
of Dublin, and her pen has likewise graced 
some of the English magazines. Her 
themes are well selected, and thec|uality of 
her vei-se reveals talent that is both vigor- 
ous and vei-saliie. 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



76,^ 



O'Shaughnessy. Arthur. 

An exquisite mingling of patlios and melody 
is the most obvious quality of the poems of 
Arthiu- O'Shauglinessy, whose brief life 
was rich in promise and far from deficient 
in results. Of their especial kind thei'e are 
no more beautiful poems extant than his 
" Fountain of Tears," " Supreme Siinmier" 
and "Song of a Fellow Worker." Arthur 
O'Sliaughnessy was born in England, in 
1846. On his father's side, as his name 
plainly shows, he was oflrisli extraction. 
In that order he belonged to the Galway 
branch of the O'Sliaughnessy family, which 
has many divisions. His mother, a woman 
of refined character, wiis of English birtli 
and descent. He began wi-iting shortly 
after tlie introduction of the Rosetti style 
of verse-making, and his own style was in- 
fluenced by it, though it cannot be said 
that lie was in any true sense an imitator. 
His first volume, "An Epic of Women, and 
Othei' Poems," drew attention to him as a 
wi-iter from whom some fresh and good 
work might be expected. From that time 
until his death, which occurred in January, 
1881, his name was constantly before the 
public in England, and always welcomed. 
A volume that appeared in 1874, under the 
title of " Music and Moonlight,"' contained 
some of his more mature and notable pieces, 
and its roception was all that he could de- 
sire. He was a frequent contributor to the 
higher class of periodicals, in France as 
well as in England, and manj' French writ- 
ers, including Victor Hugo, wei'e counted 
among his friends. In 18T3, he married a 
sister of the path.elic blind poet, Philip 
Bourke Marston. Her deatli in 1879 so 
darkened his life tliat he afterward saw 
nothing except with eyes of sadness. His 
own death two j-ears later drew from Mars- 
ton a tender elegiac poem from which we 
quote : 

" Fii-st come of us, to leave the first thou wert, - 
To fall from out the ranks of us who saiiK. 
How clear along the ranks thy full note rang 
With individual sweetness, lyric art : 
Thou, who hadst felt John's spiritual stress, 
What time he tarried in the wilderness." 



OSSIAN. 

The extract from one of the Ossian poems 
is given merely as a specimen. No change 
whatever is made in it except to substitute 



lines for paragraplis, thus giving it the form 
of ver.se. It is quite needless Iiere even to 
touch upon the vexed question of the gen- 
uineness of the poems attributed to Ossian, 
or that other question, whether he belonged 
to Scotland or Ireland. He is supposed to 
have lived in the third Century, but it was 
not till the latter part of the I'ighteentli 
that the remarkable productions published 
as his were made known to the modern 
world b3' James MacPhei-son, a Scotchman, 
who declared at the time of their publica- 
tion, and maintained in subsequent contro- 
versy, that he had found the originals in 
Gaelic, partly in oral form and jiartly in 
manuscript, among the peasantry of the 
His'hlands. 



Parxell, Faxxy 

The name of Fanny Parnell deserves a high 
and lasting place among the most beloved 
of Ireland's gifted daughters. Her sweet- 
ness of character, her ardent i)atriotism and 
her impassioned poetry, full of deep pathos 
and throbbing with lofty aspirations, won 
for her the most affectionate esteem, and 
should make her memory a treasure in 
every Irish heart. A nobler nature than 
that of Fanny Parnell has rarely been 
known even among the most famous of 
women. Only those who had opportuni- 
ties to observe it by personal acquaintance 
with her could know its true value. This 
privilege the Editor of this book enjoyed 
during the period of her literary activity, 
and his chief regret in writing of her now 
is that he cannot put into words a proper 
measure of her worth, both as a woman 
and a poet. That she was a true poet, born 
to sing, and endowed with the best attri- 
butes of the children of song, it is needless 
to say. The proof of her gifts was her suc- 
cess in touching and stirring the hearts 
of the people. The great pity is that a life 
so full of promise was so brief. She died 
while the flower of her genius was not yet 
fully opened — died too, in the spi-ing-time 
lather than the summer of her womanhood. 
Her place in the company of poets i.5 beside 
that other rare singer of inspiring national 
songs. Lady Wilde. Some of her poems i-e- 
call the noblest of " Speranza's " soul-stir- 
ring stanzas, written almoft a generation 
before. Indeed Fannv Parnell seemed to 



764 



BIOGKAPHICAL NOTEi>. 



be tlie onlainpd successor of Lmly Wilde ] 
ill Saving' ineloilioiis voice to Ww national 
]iassions anil aspirations of the Irish fM'o- ■ 
|ili'. But while the spirited poems of Lady , 
Willie were written in Ireland, those of I 
Sliss Parnell were inspired and produced in 
America. Although born and educated in 
Ireland, those of her yeai-s which may be 
i-:illed mature wei-e passed at the American 
liome of her family — the old i-esidence of 
her grandfather Commodore Stewart, at 
Bordeutown, N. J., or in New York Any 
further reference to so famous a family 
in this place is quite unnecessary. The 
name of Parnell is certainlj' one that will 
ni'ver sink to an obscm-e place in Irish his- 
tory. It wiis conspicuous on the i)age of 
patriotism in the dark days of the Union, 
and in these later yeai-s it has challenged 
and held the attention of the world. Miss 
Parnell was hoi-n at beautiful Avondale, 
County AVii-klow, and wius about eig-ht 
ycai-s younger than her distinguished bro- 
ther. "Charles Stewart Parnell. At the 
time of her death, which occurred at Bor- 
deutown, July 20, 1882, her age was about 
twenly-seven yeai-s. Her funeral, which 
called forth extraordinary public demon- 
strations of sorrow, took place, it may be 
said, ill three great cities— New York, Phil- 
adelphia and Boston— and her remains were 
placed in the tomb of the Tudor family in 
the beautiful Mount Auburn Cemetery 
near Cambridge, Mass. The Tudor family, 
it may be added, is the American source of 
her mother's origin, one of its daughlei-s 
having become the wife of Commodore 
Stewart, Mi's. Parnell's father. 



Pakxki-1., Thomas (Rev.). 

Among the earlier membei-s of the Parnell 
family in Ii-eland, was the Rev. Thomas 
Parnell, .\rchdeacon of Clogher, who be- 
longed to the period of Swift, Pope and 
Gay. He was born in Dublin in 1679 and 
he died in England in 1718. Although his 
poHtical rank is not of the highest, yet some 
of his poems have stood the test of time. 
Goldsmith, who wrote his life, very briefly, 
sjM'aks warmly of his talents, and describes 
liim as " a studious and correct observer of 
antiquity," who "set himself to consider na- 
ture with the lights it lent him, and found 
lliat the more aid he borrowed from the one. 



the more delightfully he resembled the 

other He has considered the 

language of poetry as the language of life, 
and conveys the warmest thoughts in the 
simplest expre.>vsion." An epitaph written 
by Goldsmith runs thus : 

"This tomb, insmbpd tOKfOtle Panifll'ii noun-. 

Ma.v spealt our Kratituile, but not lii» ronir. 

What heart but feels his swt-oily mnral lay, 

That leadK to truth through itlfanurp's flowery way ? 

Celestial themes confessed hid liinefiil aiil : 

And heaven, that leut him f^nius. was rvpaid. 

Needless to him the tributes we bestow. 

The transitorj- l)ri-alli of fame Jjeli>w ; 

More lastinK rapture fnnn his works aliall rise. 

While converts thank Iheir poet in the skies." 



Rkad, Charles Axdkr.sox. 

Born near Sligo. 1841 ; died in 1878; author 
of several novels and tales and some credit- 
able poems. His most ambitious work was 
the " Cabinet of Irish Litei-ature," of which 
thi-ee volumes were completed at the time 
of his death. His biographer in the fourth 
and final volume says of him : — " With 
all the enthusiastic admiration of his coun- 
try, its iieople, and its literature, which is 
characteristic of Irishmen, he regaitled this 
work as one which ought to have appeareil 
long ago ; he believed that it would prove 
of the deepest interest to his countrynien, 
enabling them to realize the long roll of 
poets, oi-atoi-s, and prose writei's. which was 
their heritage, and he took it up rever- 
ently." 



Rii.KY. .Iamks Whitco.mb. 

Ill the case of James Whitcondi Riley, as in 
that of one or two other writci'S represented 
in this book, it is to be said that claims of 
Irish lineage are somewhat slender. But 
they ai'e not by any means without basis. 
Mr. Riley's name shows a clear Irish tr.u-e 
on the paternal side, at all events. He is 
himself distinctively American, but partly 
of Irish oiigin. His father, Reuben A. 
Riley, was a grandson of James Riley, 
who was brought hither from Ireland as a 
boy. The poet's mother was a Southern 
ladj- of French descent, and daughter of a 
minister, the Rev. John Marine. James 
Whitcomb Riley was born at Greenfield, 
Indiana, October 18, 1853. The first of his 
jjoems to attract attention were those in 
which the peculiar idiom commonly called 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



765 



the "Hoosiei-" was so liappily rendered. 
These poems also contain veins of humoi- 
thoi-oughly characteristic of the people 
among' whom the author was born and 
reared. Both in spirit and form they are 
wholly unlike any other Aniorican dialect 
poems. Afriendof the author writes: "How- 
ever composite the elements in the blood 
of Mr. Riley, the quickness and brilliancy 
of his wit and the quaintness of his humor, 
are eminently Irish rh;ir;u(oi'i-lics." A 
little volume of his dial.', t ] ms was pub- 
lished in Indianapolis in is.^:; luuU.i- the 
title of '"Tlie Old Swiinniin Hole, ' and 
'Leven More Poems." He has also written 
a number of poems in what may be called 
conventional English, all of which have 
been well received and widely reprinted. 
In addition to his literary talent, Jlr. Rilej- 
possesses tlie qualities of an effective public 
reader, a clever musician, and an intuitive 
artist. 

RocHK, James Jkb'frey. 

James Jeffrey Roche is a native of Queens 
county, Ireland, and was born in 1847. He 
reached American shores in boyhood, and 
was educated at St. Dunstan's College, 
Prmce Edwards Island. His maiden effort 
in journalism was made as editor of a col- 
lege paper, which, like many of its kind, 
died verj' young. Finding that opportuni- 
ties for advancement were not very brilliant 
in Prince Edward's Island, he set out for 
Boston, where he engaged in commercial 
pursuits, but still kept his pen in practice 
by writing sprightly verse and prose for the 
literary press. He finally gave up com- 
mei'ce and became editorially attached to 
the " Pilot," to which he had previously 
been a frequent contributor. His poems 
show brightness and vivacity, and a pleasant 
turn of humor where the theme invites 
treatment in that vein. 



Russell, Matthew (Rkv.). 

As editor of the ' ' Irish Monthly " magazine 
published in Dublin, the Rev. Matthew Rus- 
sell, S. J., has shown hmiself an active and 
sympathetic friend of Irish literature, to 
which his own pen has made some valuable 
contributions, both in verse and prose. He 
has iKiblished three books of poems, one 



being entitled " Erin : Verses Irish and 
Catholic," another "Emanuel : Euchai'istic 
Verses," and the third "Madonna: Verses 
on Our Lady and the Saints." Father Rus- 
sell was born in Newry, County Armagh, 
in 1834. He was prepared for the priest- 
hood at Maynooth College, but he subse- 
sequently passed some years in study in 
England and France. It is but little to say 
of his talents that tliey are much above the 
average order, but it may also be said that 
marked intellectual power has been con- 
spicuous in his family. The late Very Rev. 
Charles W. Russell, D.D., President of May- 
nooth College, was his uncle, and the well- 
known barrister, the Hon. Charles Russell, 
is his brother. His poems are chiefly on 
religious themes, but he has also written 
many secular pieces, and all show reflec- 
tion, feeling and a felicitous command of 
simple and appropriate words. His work 
as editor of the "Irish Monthly" is among 
the best of its kind that has been done. 



Ryax, Abra.m J. (Rev.). 

The supremacy of the Rev. Abram J. Ryan 
as the poet of the " Lost Cause," is beyond 
question. " The Conquered Banner " alone 
would place him first among those who 
gave poetic voice to the spirit of the South 
in the great contest with the North. The 
exquisite pathos of this poem coujd come 
only from a heart imbued with the purest 
poetic feeling. But it is not the only poem 
conceived in pi-ofound devotion to the short 
lived Confederacy which shows the depth 
of the author's sympathy with the cause 
that died at Appomattox. The same in- 
tense but subdued passion pervades " Sen- 
tinel Songs," "The Sword of Robert Lee," 
" The Prayer of the South" and "In Mera- 
oriam," a most tender and almost tearful 
poem written on the death of his brother, 
Daniel J. Ryan, who fell on the Confeder- 
ate side. To say that Father Ryan was be- 
loved by the people of the South is to ex- 
press but feebly their deep affection for 
him. No poet of the North, singing the 
songs of the great war, touched the hearts 
of his compatriots as he did. His religious 
and reflective poems are also remarkable for 
their power to stir the depths of emotion. 
It has been said that he is too sad, but no one 
can fail to see and feel that liis pathos at 



766 



BlOGKAl'HICAL NOTES 



least is profouml and tnw. In a brief pref- 
:ice to 11 collm'tion of his poems published 
in 1883, lie says he " never dreamed of 
taking even the lowest plat'c in the mnk of 
aiitlioi-s." •' His feet know more of the 
humble steps that lead up to the Altar and 
its Mysteries than of the steps that lead up 
to Parnassus and the home of the Muses. 
And souls were always more to him than 
songs." Father Ryan was of Irish parent- 
age and was bom in Vii-ginia in 1840. He 
was an editor as well as priest and poet, 
and as a lecturer he was heaixl in the prin- 
cipal American cities. He was educated at [ 
St. Vincent's College, Cape Giranleau, Mis- j 
souri, and after his ordination he was located 
for some years at Knoxville, Tennessee. 
Going thence to Mobile, Alabama, his home j 
was in that city till a short time before his 
death, which occurred in Louisville, Ky., 
April 32, 188(i. i 



Montreal, Canada. Mi-s. Sad tier has writ 
ten a large number of Irish and Catholi' 
stories, no less than fifty and odd volunx - 
having pa.«scd from her |)en, and her nani- 
is one of the foremost in Irish-Ameri<'ai 
literature. Her poems are not sonumerou- 
as they probably would be if her time wei. 
not so much absorbed by other branches <>i 
literary work. 



Ryax, Carroll. 

Carroll Ryan is of Irish parentage and was 
born in Toronto, Canada, in 1839. From 
18.->4 to 1867 he led a mUitary life, partly of 
the roving kind, but in the latter year he 
exchanged the sword for the pen, and he 
has since had an extensive connection, 
chiefly editorial, with the Canadian press. 
He has published two books of poems and 
also an interesting work on the Canadian 
Northwest. 



Ryves, Elizabeth 

Little is known of the early life of this 
writer, except that she was born in Ireland, 
of good family, about the middle of the 
eighteenth century. Most of her litei-ary 
work was done in London, where she died in ; 
1779. She wrote novels, plays and poems, ] 
but did not gain much success, and her ] 
death was due to poverty ; — in truth, by de- i 
pending on her pen, she invited slarvati 
and it came. 



wife 



Sadlikr, Mary A. 

Mary Anne Madden, who became tli 
of Mr. James Sadlier, a New York pub- 
li-sher, and, has since been known as a most 
prolific and interesting writer, was born in 
Cootehill, C'ounty Cavan, Ireland, in 1830. 
She came to America in 1844, was married 
to Mr. Sadlier in 1846, and is now living in 



Savauk, John". 

John Savage was born in Dublin, December 
13, 1838. Before completing his twentieth 
year he had played an active part as a iw- 
olutionist (in the Forty-eight movemeni j 
and gained distinction its a contributor ti> 
the Irish national press. Arriving in New 
York while still under twenty, he found 
employment :is a proof-reader in the oITrh 
of the "Tribune," then an ardent friend of 
the Irish cause. Aft-.T about a year at that 
occupation, he began to write for the lead- 
ing reviews and other publications, and b.\' 
a combination of energy and liteniry talent 
he soon made himself favorably known. 
His first book, "Lays of Fatherland," pub 
published in 1850, was well received. In 
1858 he produced a ti-agic play entitled 
" Sybil," which atti-actetl much attention 
and gained a lai-ge share of success. From 
1857 to 18()1 he was engagetl in journalism 
in Washington, as chief writer on the 
"States" newspaper. At the beginning of 
the war with the South he warmly espoused 
the Union side, and aided it with some 
spirited patriotic lyrics. In 1803 a collec- 
tion of his j>oems appeared under the title 
of "Faith and Fancy," and a more com- 
plete collection entitled " Poems — Lyrical, 
Dramatic and Romantic," was published in 
1870. Among his prose works are ""98 and 
'48." "Fenian Hei-oes and Martyrs" and 
"Living Representative Men." Most of 
the text of the interesting work known as 
" Picturesque Ireland" was also written by 
him, and the article on Ireland in the revised 
edition of the American Cyclo|iedia is like- 
wise from his pen. In 1879 he i-eceived the 
distinction of L.L.D. from St. John's Col- 
lege, Forilham, N. Y. 



SEDULIf.s. 

Concerning this writer, the Rev. Williaa 
Mcllwaine, translator of the poem 



De 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



767 



Nativitate Domini," says in liis " Lyra Hi- 
bernica Saci-a :" — " That Ireland may justly 
claim as her own this illustiious theologian 
and poet there can be little donbt, the 
epithet 'Scotus Hibernensis' beina: given 
to him in the anr-ient manuscripts and 
earliest printed editions of his works. He 
flourished in the middle of the fifth cen- 
tury, and was a voluminous prose writer, 
as well as an accomplished poet. It may 
be remarked that this author should be 
carefully distinguished from another of the 
same name, with whom our countryman is 
sometimes confounded." 



Serrano, Mary .1. 

Mrs. Mary J. Serrano, whose maiden name 
was Mary J. Christie, was born in Castle- 
bar, County Slayo, Ireland, and has been a 
resident of New York since 1849. Her lit- 
erary work has been almost wholly in the 
domain of verse, for which she possesses a 
happy aptitude. A strong religious feeling 
pervades all that she has written. A col- 
lection of hei' pieces, under the title, " Des- 
tiny, and other Poems," was published in 
1883, and received favoi-able notice from the 
press. Mrs. Serrano is a lady of many 
social graces, and much esteeiiied for do- 
mestic virtues. 



Shauly, Charles Dawson. 

This graceful Irish-American writer was 
born in Dublin, in March, 1811. His educa- 
tion was finished iu Trinity College, where 
he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts. In 
1836 his fathci-, a member of the Irish bar, 
emigrated with his family to Canada, 
where Charles held an appointment in the 
civil service till 1857. He then removed to 
New York, which offered a wider field for 
the gratification and exercise of his literary 
tastes and talents. The circle of writers of 
whicli he became a member included Fitz- 
James O'Brien, William Winter, George 
Arnold and others whose pens were 
equally graceful in eitiier verse or prose. 
He was only an occasional writer of poetry, 
but the poems he did write were quickly 
recognized as bearing the stamp of more 
than ordinary merit. He possessed artistic 
talent of a high order, and it was in art 
criticism, and the writing- of essays and 
sketches in which his ai'tistic instinct had 



free play, that his pen was chiefly employed. 
He also bore editorial responsibilities, hav- 
ing been successively the editor of "Vanity 
Fair," "Mrs. Grundy" and "Punchinello," 
neither of which, however, succeeded in 
gaining a firm footing. When departing 
for Florida, in shattered health, and not 
expecting to recover, he requested his 
friend. William Winter, to consider himself 
his literaiy executor, in the event of his 
death, which occurred in April, 18715. " Ev- 
erything I have written," he said, " I leave 
to you, if you will take it, and perhaps it 
may be of some little use." In an obituary 
sketch of him in the New York " Tribune," 
Mr. Winter said : — " Nobility of character, 
integrity of conduct, fidelity to duty, cheer- 
ful submission to fate, sweetness of temper- 
ament and modesty of bearing, are rarer 
and richer virtues than intellectual bril- 
liancy, and they were all combined in him. 
He was a kindly, quiet, thoughtful man, 
who worked hard, accomplished much, did 
all the good he could find to do, and never 
spoke of himself or his labors."' Mr. Shan- 
ly's best known poems are "Civile Bellum," 
the "Walker of the Snow," and the " Brier- 
wood Pipe." 



Shea, Johx Augustus. 

A native of Cork city ; born in 1803 ; died iu 
New York in 1845. He followed business 
pursuits in his earlier years, but varied 
them with literary occupation. Going to 
London in 1826, he became acquainted with 
literary men of note, and published a ro- 
mance entitled "Rudekki," which was well 
received. In 1837 he arrived in America, 
and he soon after obtained employment at 
West Point, on the Hudson, where he re- 
sumed his literary work. He subsequently 
became connected with the " Clironicle " in 
Philadelphia, the "National Intelligencer" 
and the " Telegraph" in Washington, D.C., 
and the " Tribune," in New York. He had 
many literary friends and was recognized as 
a writer of much merit. Some time after his 
death his poems were collected and pub- 
lished by his son, Judge George Shea, of 
New York, 



Sheridax, Richard Brinsley. 

Very little will suffice here concerning a 
man so famous as Richard Brinsley Sheri- 



768 



RrOGRAPHICAL XOTES. 



liaii, dramatist, orator and statesniiin. He 
was bom in Dublin in 1851. and lie died in 
London, July 7, 1816, and was buried in 
Wc'slniinstor Abbey. His education bcf^iin 
in Dublin but wa.s finisbed in Engrland, 
wliitlier his parents removed during his 
boyhood. At the age of twenty-two yeai'S 
he married Mi.ss Linley, an aeconipllshed 
vocalist, on whose account he took part in 
two duels. Dropping the law, for which he 
had been ]ii-epared, he applied himself to 
literary work, and in the secotid year after 
his mnrria.sjre his fii-st play " The Rivals," 
was produced. His next effort was a farce 
called '• St. Patrick's Day." which wa-s fol- 
lowed by a comic opeiti, the "Duenna." 
After that eatue " A Trip to Scarborous:h ."' 
then the brilliant ''School for Samdal," the 
fini'st comedy in the English language, and 
linallj' the " Critic." He entered Parlia- 
ment ill 1780, and two years later he was 
Under Secretary of Stiite. The most nota- 
l)le event in his public career was his me- 
morable siicoch on the impeachment of 
Warren Hastings. It is chiefl.v by his work 
a-s a dramatist ttiat his name survives. He 
was not in any laige sense a poet, and the 
few pieces of verse written by him were 
only incidentiil to his plays. 



modern tricks of rhyme. The strongly 
di-amatic poem. "Maire ni Milloon," is an 
exc"ellent example of the author's directness 
and sim|ilicity. Dr. Sigerson hiLs also writ- 
ten some good original poetns. He is a man 
of learning and industry, a Fellow of the 
Royal Univei'sity of Ireland, and Profi-.ssor- 
in a Catholic Institution in Dublin. Most 
of his translations have appeared in a vol- 
ume entitled " The Poetn- of Miinster." 



Shkhiuan, Thomas (Rkv.). 

,\s an intimate friend of Swift, as wit, cler- 
gyman and musician in one, and as the 
gi-andfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 
the Rev. Thoma.s Sheridan deserves a word 
of lomembraiH^e. He was a man of note in 
his day, thougli at the present time his name 
is not often heard or seen. Scott speaks of 
him as ' highly respectable for learning, 
and uiK'oiiiiiion talent for the education of 
.voutli." and adds that he wa.s distinguished 
for •' a simplicity of charat^ter which ill suit- 
ed with his worldly interest." Dr. Sheridan 
wxs born in 1684, and died in 1738. 



SiMMOXS, Baktholomkw. 

A native of Kilworlh, in the county of 
Cork ; died in 1*50. Shortly after he begun 
writing he obtained employment in one of 
the government departments in London, and 
retained it till his death. Some of his best 
productions appeared in " Blackwood's," to 
which he was a fivquent contributor. Al- 
though not a poet of the national s<'liool. he 
was highly esteemed in Ireland for the in- 
trinsic merit of his work. He wrote with 
power and even a degree of grandeur upon 
historical themes, and in de.scribing scen- 
ery, especially in his native county, his pen 
was graphic and felicitous. In some coUei- 
tions of poems which contain examples of 
his work, his nationality is concealed. 



SlOKllSO.N, fiKORGE. 

Some of the best translations from the early 
Irish poets liave been made by Dr. George 
Sigerson, a native of Strabane, County Ty- 
rone, and at present residing in Dublin. 
They have the special merit of being laith- 
ful in both form and spirit, and devoid of 
any attempt to '' improve" the original by 



Sterlixg, John. 

Although not a native of Ireland, John 
Sterling, a poet ol superior talent, was of 
Irish parentjige, and therefore deserves a 
place in this work. His father, Eilwaril 
Sterling, once editor of the London 
" Times," was a native of Limerick, and 
his grandfather was Clerk of the Irish House 
of Commons. The poet was born in the 
Island of Bute. Scotland, in 1806. He took 
ordei's in the English Church in 1834, and 
wa.s for a short time a curate in Sussex, 
Eii.gland. His natural bent being towaixl 
independence of thought, he withdrew from 
active connection with the Chui-ch, and gavi- 
his time to liteiiiture and travel. His writ- 
ing's, and espe<'ially his poems, were re- 
ceived with great favor in the best critical 
circles. He dieil at the age of thirty-eight, 
and he found appreciative biographei-s in 
both .Vrchdeacon Hare ami Thomas Car- 
lyle. As a man of lettei's, he piined a place 
of special honor for his yeai's. 



BrOGRAI'HICAL NOTES. 



r69 



Stokes, Whitley. 

In response to an inquiry about Professor 
Wliitley Stokes, tlie late Sir Samuel Fer- ' 
guson wrote to the Editor : " Dr. Whitley 
Stokes is a man quite illustrious in the 
world of learning. He is one of the leading 
authorities in Celtic and old Irish philology 
in all the universities of Europe. He resides 
in London, having retired from his office of 
Member of the Legislative Council of India. 
He is the author of many works in the field 
of old Irish learning, which are of the ut- 
most value to this country." To this may be 
added that Professor Stokes is a son of the I 
late Dr. William Stokes, an eminent physi- 
cian of Dublin, and at one time President 
of the Eoyal Irish Academy, and a grand- 
son of Whitley Stokes, also of Dublin, who 
died in 1845, and is noticed in Allibone's Dic- 
tionarj' of English Literature, as "of Dub- 
lin University, Barrister-at-law, and Assist- 
ant Secretary to the Government of India." 
His poems are chiefly translations, but they 
are evidently tho work of a skillful hanil. 

Sullivan, Margaret. 

This vigorous writer, who has .strongly im- 
pressed herself upon Irish-American litera- 
ture, is a daughter of James Buchanan, a 
cloth manufacturer in Ulster, who died 
while she was an infant. Highly educated 
at the Convent of the Sacred Heart in De- 
troit, Mich., and also by private tuition, she 
became assistant principal of a grammar 
school at the age of seventeen, but resigned 
the position to accept a place on the edito- 
rial staff of the Chicago " Times." Writing 
with remarkable force and intelligence upon 
the many topics which come before a daily 
newspaper for discussion, her articles in the 
"Times" attracted special attention. She 
also wrote extensively on musical and lit- 
erary subjects, and became \videly known 
as a thorough journalist. By this labor and 
as one of the staff engaged on the supple- 
mentary volumes of the American edition ot 
the Encyclopedia Britannica, as a frequent 
contributor to leading magazines and Cath- 
olic publications, and as the author of a 
valuable work entitled " Ireland of To-day," 
she has made an enduring literary reputa- 
tion. In 1874 she was married to Alexander 
Sullivan, a successful member of the Chi- 
cago Bar, and an active worker in tho Ii-isli 
national movement in AnuM-ica. 



Sullivan, Timothy D. 

When a poet's songs are taken up by the 
people, there is evidence at once that they 
are attuned to the right chord. The lyrics 
of Timothy Daniel Sullivan are more widely 
known in Ireland than those of any othei' 
poet of his time. Tliey are mostly upon na- 
tional themes, and are written in a simple 
and melodious style, yet possessing marked 
literary merit, and from the first they have 
been quick to reach tho popular heart. Mr. 
Sullivan has, however, written several po- 
ems of a more ambitious order, and these 
have also obtained due recognition. He 
is a native of Bantry, County Coi-k, and was 
born in 1827. When the development of his 
poetical talent began, he was attracted to 
the " Nation," as so many others had been; 
and when his brother, Alexander M. Sulli- 
van, became the "Nations" editor, after 
the retirement of Charles Gavan Duffy, the 
poet joined him upon that joui-nal as a mem- 
ber of the staff. Owing to failing health, 
A. M. Sullivan was obliged to resign the 
editorship in 1876, and it was then taken by 
T. D. Sullivan, by whom it is still lield. 
Besides being a poet of much merit, he is a 
strong political writer and a speaker of con- 
siderable force. In 1880 he was elected to 
Parliament from Westmeath, and he has 
taken an active and useful pai-t in tlie de- 
bates upon Irish questions. He had the 
honor of being tried as one of the " travere- 
ers " in the abortive prosecution of Mr. 
Parnell and his associate " suspects," and 
one of Ills lyrics, " JIurty Hynes," was in- 
troduced at llie trial to sliowthe heinousness 
of his "disloyalty." In- 1885, Mr. Sullivan 
received the additional honor of beingelected 
Lord Mayor of Dublin, and the honor was 
repeated the following year. As poet, jour- 
nalist, and man ot affairs, he is highly es- 
teemed by his countrymen. 



Swift, Jonathan. 

Jonathan Swift, the famous Dean, was born 
in Dublin, November 30, 1657, and his death 
occurred October 19, 1745. His education 
was commenced in Kilkenny, continued 
at Trinity College, Dublin, and finished at 
Oxford University, England. In 1695 he 
took orders in the Episcopal Church, and in 
1 713 he was appointed Dean of St. Patrick's, 
Dublin. His mind, however, ran much 



770 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



more on public than on religious affairs, and | 
liis celebrity rests almost wholly upon his 
boUl and original political satires. To him j 
may be ascribed the inti-oduction of agita- 
tion as a national force in Ireland. He hated 
and de.spised the methods of English rule in 
his native country, and he denounced them 
with unsparing invective and an aggressive I 
luuMor that bordered on tlie sardonic. Al- 
though he wrote trenchant verse almost ;ls 
readily as the most masterly prose, it can- 1 
not be said that as a poet he gained a place j 
of any special note. He was a rhetorical i 
wai-rior i-ather than a singer of songs. 

Taylou, Uxa Ashwortu. 

The name of Una Ashworth Taylor appears 
occasionally in the Irish national press. Her 
poems sliovv warm patriotic feeling and 
a pleasing ease of expression. The I'act 
that she writes in an interesting way on 
themes that have been almost exhausted, 
in a literary sense, is evidence that she i>os- 
.sesses good talent. The poem "In Exile" 
is much better than the average of its kind. 



TiGHK, Mary. 

It was of Mrs. Mary Tighe, daughter of the 
Rev. W. Blachford, that Moore wrote, 
'■ If souls could always Uwell above. 
Thou iieVr hadst left that splieie : 
Or could we keep the souls we love. 
We ne'er had lost thee here." 

She was born in Dublin in 1773, and died in 
1810. Her poems ai'e marked by purity ol 
sentiment and great delicacy of feeling. 
The principal one is a long poem entitleii i 
" Psyclie, or the Legend of Lovg." and is j 
founded on tlie fable of the loves of Cupid 
and Psyche. It was regai'ded in its time as 
a highly meritorious production. Mrs. He- 
nians" beautiful lines on "The Grave of a 
Poetess " are a tribute to the memory of 
this gifted woman. 



TODHUNTKK, JOHX. 

Although tlie name of Dr. John Todhunter 
is not widely known, he has written some 
poems of considerable merit. His publica- 
tions include "Laurellaand Other Poems," 
'■ Forest Songs," and some interesting dra- 
matic poems. Dr. Todliunter was born in 
Dublin in 1839 and educated at Trinity Col- 
lege, where he took the degree of M.D. He 



pi-acticed medicine in Dublin for some years, 
but has latterly devoted himself wholly to 
literature, in which his talents entitle him 
to a creditable place. 

Trkxch, UuiiAiU) Chkxkvix(MostRkv.). 
If Iiish birth and Iiish parentage make a man 
an Irishman, Archbishop Richai-d Chenevix 
Trench comes very distinctly into that clas- 
sllication, although he is sometimes credited 
to England. He was born in Dublin, Sep- 
tember 9, 1807, his father being Richai-d 
Trench, and his mother a grand-daughter 
»)f Dr. Chenevix, once Bishop of AVaterford. 
It is therefore very clear that Ireland, not 
England, is entitled to claim him. His edu- 
cation, however, was i-eceived in England, 
and before his promotion to the archbisliop- 
rlc of Dublin, lie had filled ecclesiastical posi- 
tions tliere, including that of Dean of West- 
minster, to wliich he succeeded on the re- 
tirement of his friend, Dr. Wilberforce. Ills 
appointment as Archbi-shop of Dublin was 
made in 1864, and after holding that high 
ollice twenty years, he retired from it in 
1884, on account of infirmities resulting from 
advanced age. Dr. Trench was a prolifii' 
writer in both prose and verse, and the qual- 
ity of his work is high. He published sev- 
eral volumes of poems, mostly moral and 
religious in character, and also a valuable 
and highly interesting book entitled "The 
Study of Words," besides various learne<l 
e.ssays on philological subjects. Half a 
century ago he Wiis declared by English re- 
views to be "among the foremost of our 
young poets," and some of the poems writ- 
ten by him at that time still find their way 
into newspaper cornei-s. He died March 
28, 1886. 



Tyxax, Kathauixe. 

A place of nmch credit among Ireland's 
younger writers has been gained by Jliss 
Katharine Tynan, who has been in the lit- 
erary world only a few yeai-s. Miss Tynan 
Is a native of Dublin, and was born in 1861. 
Her name is already well known in Ireland, 
and lier merit is warmly appreciated. It 
has also been recognized in England by 
many pei-sons of literary judgment, includ- 
ing Cardinal Manning, her first vohiinc 
published in London, under the title of 
" Louise de la Valliere and other Poems," 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



771 



having attracted a good sliare ol' aUeiiUon, 
and been generously commended. From 
both the Enghsli and Irish press it received 
a cordial welcome. Miss Tynan writes 
witli feeling and ardor upon Irish themes, 
and witli a deep spiritual devotion upon 
those of a religious character. Slie has 
contributed extensively to periodicals anil 
semi-literary papers in Ireland, England 
and America, and many of her poems have 
been widely reprinted. Her second book 
of poems, entitled " Shamrocks," was pub- 
lished in 1SS6. 

Waller, John Francis. 

When this note is written. Dr. John Waller 
who was born in Limerick in 1810, is still 
engaged in literary work. At the age of 
itwenty-three, after passing through Trinity 
College, he was admitted to the bar, and in 
1853 he received tlie degree of L. L. B. and 
L. L. D. Many of his poems first appeared 
in the " Dublin University Magazine," of 
which he was editor for some years after 
the retirement of Charles Lever. He used 
for some time the nom de2>luine of " Jona- 
athan Flake Slingsby," and it was under 
that name that he became known as the 
author of various popular songs and lyrics. 
A collection of his poems, under the title of 
the "Slingsby Papers," was published in 
1853, and in 1856 appeared a more ambitious 
work, the " Dead Bridal." The playful hu- 
mor of his versatile pen is happily illus- 
trated in the " Spinning Wheel Song" and 
" Kitty Neil." He has, however, written a 
number of serious poems of 



Walsh, Edward. 

The poems of Edward Walsh, even those 
relating to the affections, show especially 
an intense national sympathy. Tlieir au- 
thor was born in Londondeny, in 1809, his 
parents, liowever, being natives of Cork. 
On reaching manhood he became a scliool- 
master, and his active life was spent in 
that calling, although he was for a while 
sub-editor of the " Dublin Monitor," a posi- 
tion obtained for him by Charles Gavan 
Duffy. He was a good Irish scholar, and 
when his death occurred (in 1850) he had 
completed two volumes of translations from 
the old Irish poets. 



White, Richard Edward. 

Richard E. White was born in Dublin in 
1843. He came to the United States in 1865, 
lived a few years in New York, and went 
thence to San Francisco, where he lias since 
resided. Although engaged in business, he 
has been an industrious contributor of botli 
prose and verse to newspapers and the 
jjeriodical press. In 1882 he published a 
small volume of poems entitled " The Cross 
of Monterey," in which the legends of the 
early missions of the Pacific Coast are ad- 
mirably rendered. The leading poems are 
suffused with the mellow atmosphere of 
the time to which they relate, and have 
been commended for their value in preserv- 
ing interesting traditions which the practi- 
cal spirit of tlie present day is likely to 
overlook. 



Whitman, Sarah Helen. 

Althougli Mrs. AVhitman was of American 
lineage for several generations, the pride 
she took in her Irish descent, and her deep 
interest in all things relating to her gene- 
alogy, seem to be a sufficient reason for 
her introduction into the company a.ssem- 
bled in this collection. She was a daughter 
of the third and last Nicholas Power, of 
Rhode Island, whose grandfatlier, also 
Nicholas Power, accompanied Roger Wil- 
liams in his banishment, and assisted him 
in establisliing a government based upon 
the principle of absolute freedom of con- 
science. The Powers of Rhode Island traced 
their descent from Nicholas Le Poer (of the 
old Norman family so conspicuous in Irish 

, annals), whose Castle of Don Isle was de- 
stroyed by Cromwell. One of Mrs. Whit- 

] man's poems narrates tlie heroic defence of 

' ■ Don Isle by a lady of the family. The in- 
cident is historical and full of chivalric in- 
terest. Tiie Le Poers were deeply involved 
in the troubles of 1641, and Cromwell pur- 
sued tliem with a special and relentless ani- 
mosity. Mrs. Whitman diligently collected 
everything relating to the family, and 
plumed herself not a little, although mod- 
estly, upon her connection with it. She 
was born in Providence, R. I., in 1813, and 
she died in the same place in 1878. She 
was married at an early age to John Win- 
slow Whitman, a descendant of Edward 

I Winslow, the first Governor of Plymouth. 



7/2 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



Her poetical talents wei-e of an exceptionally 
flne quality, and she was not loiip in win- 
ning recog'nition as one of tlie foremost fe- 
male poets of America. Among lier prose 
woiks is a life of Edgar Allen Poe, whose 
genius and frailties she understood, and to 
whose memory shedid sympathetic justice. | 
In the composition of some of her poems, es- 
pecially those of a legendai-y kind, she was 
aided by her sister, Miss Anna M. Power, ] 
who also possessed tine literary talents. I 



WiUJE, Ladt. ' 

No more spirited national songs than those ' 
of " Speianza" have ever been written by a 
woman. When they began to appear in the 
"Nation," the author was Miss Jane Fran- 
cesca Elgee, daughter of an Episcopal rector 
in Wexfoid. On the paternal side, her fam- 
ily is of Itahan origin. In 1851, Miss Elgee 
became the wife of Dr. William R. Wilde, 
of Dublin, whose eminence as an oculist 
subsequently gained him the distinction of 
Knighthood. It was ;is "Speranza" that 
she was popularlj- known for many years 
after her literary activity began, but in the ■ 
social world, where her brilliant gifts have 
won her nuich esteem, she is Lady Wilde. 
Her national poetry throughout is a marvel 
of passionate energy, and has done a full 
share in sustaining and guiding the fervent 
spirit of the people. She has, however, 
written extensively, and quite as strongly, 
in prose. It was as a prose writer that she 
lii'st appeared in the "Nation." Speaking 
of lierin his work, " New Ireland," Mr. A. 
M. Sullivan says: "In 1848 she was the 
Madame Uoland of the Irisli Gironde. When 
the struggle was over, and Gavan Duffy 
was on trial for high treason, among the ar- 
ticles read against him was one from the , 
suppressed number of the ' Nation,' entitled 
' Jacta Alea Est.' It was without exam- 
ple as a i-evolutionary appeal. Exquisitely 
bi-autiful as a piece of writing, it glowed 
with liery invective. It was in fact a prose 
poem, a wild war-song, in which Ireland was 
called upon that day, in the face of earth 
and heaven, to invoke the ultima ratio of 
oppressed nations. The Attorney-General 
read the article amid breathless silence. At 
its close there was a murmur of emotion in 
the densely' crowded court, when suddenly 
a cry fronj the ladies' gallery startled every- 



one. ' I am the culprit, if crime it be, «a» 
spoken in a woman's voice. It was the 
queenly voice of 'Spei-anza.' The article 
was from her pen." A volume of La<ly 
Wilde's poems was published in Dublin in 
1805. She has also published many transla- 
tions from Continental works, one being a 
remarkable German novel, entitled " The 
Fii-st Temptation." Her latest and proba- 
bly most enduring work is an interesting 
and valuable collection of "Ancient Le- 
gends, Mystic Charms, and Sujiei-stitions of 
Ireland," published in England and the 
United States in 1887. 



WiLDK, Oscar. 

The poems of Oscar Wilde have received a 
large share of attention. Although belong- 
ing in tlie main to the peculiar school cred- 
ited to Swinburne, they possess distinct 
merits of their own and show capacity in 
the author for true poetical work. Few 
better poonis of its kind have been written 
than the one entitled " Ave Impei-itrix." 
But the possession of poetical talent would 
seem to be the natural gift of the son of 
" Speranza," although it is not often that 
the genius of parents reappeare in their 
children. Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, 
and educated there and at Oxford, En; laud. 
The award tor the prize poem was won by 
him at Oxford when hegr;iduated. He has 
written some plays as well as the poems 
which first brought his name before the 
public, and as a lecturer he has met with 
fair success. He has also had the distinc- 
tion, such as it may be, of being made the 
central figure in one of the burlesque opera- 
plays written by Mr. Gilbert and fitted with 
music by Arthur Sullivan — namely, "Pa- 
tience." 



Wilde, Richard Hexry. 

In Griswold's " Poets and Poetry of Ameri- 
ca," Richard Henry Wilde is recorded as of 
American birth. Tliis, however, is an error, 
as Wilde was born in Dublin, in 1789. He was 
brouglit to the United States in childhood 
by liis parents, who settled in Baltimore. 
After his father's death, young Wilde was 
taken to Augusta, Georgia, by his mother, 
and in that place he prepared himself for 
the bar, solely by study at home in spare 



BIOGKAPHICAL NOTES. 



hours. So well did lie stoi-e liis uiiiid willi i 
legal knowledge that he eventually became 
Attorney-General of the State. He also 
entered politics, and was three times elected 
to Congress. He studied and mastered sev- 
eral languages, and translated some of th(- 
French, German and Italian poets. His 
original poems show much beauty of 
thought, and artistic skill in versification. 
After a visit to Europe in 1835, he removed 
from Georgia to New Orleans, where ho 
died in 184T. 



Williams, Richard Dai/ion. 

Among the many "Poets of the Nation," 
none wrote with a truer touch than Richard 
Dalton Williams. He was born in Dublin, 
about the j-ear 1822, and he died at Tliibo- 
deau.K, Louisiana, July 5, 1863. While still 
at Carlow College, in Tipperaiy, he began 
his contributions to the "Nation," and ho 
rapidly won a place in the good company of 
Davis, Mangan, Duffy, and tlie other bril- 
liant writers of their time. Some of his un- 
published poems are dated in 1837 and 1838, 
showing that he began writing while a boy. 
He was educated to be a physician, and 
his humorous poems have all the dash, fun 
and drollery for which the Irish medical 
student is not the least distinguished. Go- 
ing heartily into tbe Young Ireland move- 
ment, he became one of its most active lit- 
erary workers, and when John Mitchel was 
struck down by tlie Government, and his 
paper suppressed, Williams and Kevin Izod 
O'Doherty set up another paper of the same 
kind, which they callsd "The Irish Trib- 
une." They also were arrested for inciting 
insurrection. Williams was defended by 
Samuel Ferguson, who was even then a poet 
of much distinction, and the Government 
failed to obtain a conviction. When the 
Young Ireland movement went down, he 
obtained a medical diploma in Scotland, 
practiced awhile in Dublin, chiefly in Ste- 
vens' Hospital, and in the summer of 1851 he 
set out for the United States. Going to the 
South, partly on account of his liealUi, he 
obtained a position as Professor of Belles 
Lettres in Siiring- Hill College, at Mobile. In 
1856 he went to New Orleans, where he mar- 
ried a Miss Connolly, and he remained there 
some years, practicing as a physician and 
also continuing his literai-y work. He sub- 



sequently removed to Baton Rouge, and 
thence to Thibodeaux, where he was living 
at the begiiming of the war between the 
States. Some of his best poems were written 
during his residence in America. A sliort 
time after his death, his grave at Thibodeau.x 
was discovered by the Captain of an Irish 
Company in a New Hampshire Regiment. 
Measures were at once taken to place a mon- 
ument over the spot, and in a few weeks a 
simple mai-ble shiift marked the resting- 
place of the poet. The incident was well 
celebrated by a brother poet, Thom.as Darcy 
McGee, in the lines, " God Bless the Brave !" 
The inscription on the monument i-eads : — 



Sacred to the Memoi-.v of 

Richard Dalton Williams, 

The Irish I'atiiot aid Poet, 

Who died July 5, ISO-,'. Aged 40 years. 

This Stone was erected by his countrymen serving in 

Companies C and K, 8th Regt., N. H. Volunteers, 

As a slight testimonial of their esteem 

For his unsullied Patriotism and his exalted Devotion 

To the Cause of Irish Freedom. 



Wilson, Johx Crawford. 

John Crawford Wilson was born in Mal- 
low, County Cork, in 1825. Tlie greater 
part of his lite has been passed in London, 
where he has followed literary pursuits and 
become favorably known. Among his poeti- 
cal works are "The Village Pearl," "Lost 
and Found" and "Flights to Fairyland." 
He has written successfully for the stage, 
and he is also the author of a series of clever 
sketches and tales, collected under the title 
of "Jonathan Oldacre, or Leaves from the 
Diary of a Commercial Traveller." His 
principal poems are long, and the short 
ones hardly do justice to his talents, which 
have been chiefly exercised in depicting the 
pathetic and tender side of luimanity. 



WoLFB, Charles (Rev.). 

The author of the "Burial of Sir John 
Moore," which gained him more distinction 
tlian many poets have won by years of labor, 
was born in Dublin in 1791. His family 
was of good standing, and he was related 
to the brilliant patriot, Theobald Wolfe 
Tone. While a college youtli of eighteen 
he composed a Latin poem which received 
a good deal of praise, and in later years he 
wrote a few minor pieces of a passable kind. 



774 



BIOGKAFHICAL NOTES. 



but the poem flret mentioned was the only 
one or positive merit that he produced. He 
passed (liroiig'h two schools in England, and 
afterward through Trinity College, Dublin, 
aii<l in 1817 he was ordained a curate of the i 
Establisiied Church and assigned to Don- 
oughniore, in the diocese of Armagh. His i 
lot was not happily ca-st, for he was obliged I 
to lodge in a miserable hoase with an old . 
soldier and his family as his only associates, 
and without either seclusion or comfort. It ! 
was while thus situated that he wrote the 
jioem since linked with his name. His 
health soon failed, consumption set in. In- 
removed to Cork in the hope of obtaining 
relief, and he died at the Cove of Cork 
(now Queenstown), in 1821. His grave in 
the chin-ch yard of Clonmel parish, near 
Cork, is sadly neglected. After a visit to it 
a few yeai-s since with one of her children. 
Iho gifted American poetess, Mi-s. 8. M. B. , 
Piatt, wrote the following lines: 

Where graves were many, we looked for one. | 

Oh, the Irish rose wa-s red, I 

And the dark stones saddened the setting sun ' 
With the names of the earlj- dead. 



of him 



.^ 



^'y'*, 



Then a child who, somehow, liad beard 

In the land we love so well, 
Kept lifting the grass till the dew wai dim 

In the churchyard of Clonmel. 

But the sexton came. " Can you tell us where 
Charles Wolfe is buried > " "I can. 

See, Hiat is his grave in the comer there- 
Aye, be was the clever man. 

If God had spare<l him ! It's many that come 
To l>e asking for him," said lie ; 

But the boy kept whispering, " Not a .Inuii 
Was heard,"— in the dusk to me. 

Then the gray man tore a vine from the wall 

Of the roofles-s church where lie lay. 
And the leaves that the withering year let fall, 

He swept with the ivy away ; 
And, as we read on the rock the words 

That, writ in the moss, we found, 
Right over his bosom a shower of binis 

In music fell to the ground. 

— Young poet, I wonder did you care. 

Did it move you in your rest 
To hear that child iu his golden liair. 

From the mighty woods of the West, 
Repeating your verse of his own sweet will 

To the sound of the twilight iiell. 
Years after your tieating heart was si-ll 

Til the ehurcliyard of Clonmel J 



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